


El Juramento

by thekurosakiconundrum



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, And So Does Ichigo, Anger Management, Anger Mismanagement, Anxiety, Arrancar Society and History, Bad Spanish, Being Okay, Biting, Desperation, Explicit Sexual Content, Feminist Hallibel, Fuck Or Die, Good Guy Grimmjow, Grimmjow Is A Mess, Healing, Hollow Ichigo - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Integration, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Masturbation, Mild D/s, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Renji's Fluffy Gay Bankai Shawl, Self-Acceptance, Self-Hatred, Sexual Experimentation, Switching (Eventually), Trust Issues, bad breakup, but we love him anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6812050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekurosakiconundrum/pseuds/thekurosakiconundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ichigo volunteered to join the diplomatic mission to the newly rediscovered planet Hueco Mundo, he wasn't expecting to be stricken by a strange ailment of unknown origin. Even if he had, somehow, managed to predict that, he certainly wouldn't have guessed that the ailment would leave him craving touch and desperate to be taken. And to complicate matters further, it's not a drug or infection--CMO Unohana says it's something to do with the gaps in Ichigo's knowledge of his family tree. </p><p>Fuck-or-Die, GrimmIchi style. In space, because everything is better in space. Ichigo has a lot of fantasies about a lot of people, so be aware of that if you're not into other pairings. Orihime is his ex, and she doesn't come off too well, but I wouldn't call it Orihime bashing, either. Bottom Ichigo, but NO MPREG. Updated weekly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“C’mon, Byakuya! Do I really have to go to _another_ fancy reception?” Ichigo complained. “I hate wearing the formal shihakusho. It never hangs right on me.”

“It is simply finer cloth than you are used to,” Byakuya replied dismissively, then continued, “Many of the Arrancar like you, Kurosaki, albeit for reasons I have yet to grasp. You will go to the reception. You will be ‘on the clock,’ as it were—if you waste your time talking to your fellow Shinigami and those among the Arrancar you have already befriended like you did last time, you will answer to me.”

Ichigo bristled, biting back a hasty reply—after months cooped up in a starship and then the past three weeks trying to charm and impress their hosts, having Byakuya attempt to punish him for not following orders sounded like a welcome change of pace. He hadn’t fought Byakuya in ages… But no, that was just the stuff of idle daydreams. What would he do if he lost, or for that matter, if he _won?_ It was better just to play his part.

“Fine,” Ichigo agreed, blowing out an exasperated breath. “Anybody in particular you want me to talk to? How’re we doing with support among the Espada, anyway?” 

“You should know this, Kurosaki. Please try and keep up in the future,” Byakuya said. “But we’ve got Tres Espada Harribel of the Education Division, Sexta Espada Jaegerjaques of the Defense Division, Octava Espada Grantz of the Scientific Division, and Noveno Espada Arruruerie of the Financial Division supporting the commencement of peaceful relations between our two peoples and the mutual establishment of embassies, while Quinto Espada Gilga of the Interstellar Mercenary Division and Décimo Espada Llargo of Police Division oppose such a move.

“The Primera, Starrk; Cuatro Espada Cifer of the Intelligence Division, Séptima Espada Rureax of the Colonial Division, and Segunda Espada Louisenbairn of the Homeworld Management Division are undecided, so that’s where we need to focus our attention. I suspect the Primera will not take a side until after there is a clear majority, but he is their leader, so we should still attend to him carefully.”

Geez, Ichigo was sorry he asked. “Um… those are the little black-and-white one, the one with the facial tattoos, and the old guy, right?”

“…Right,” Byakuya agreed, pouring his all of disdain for Ichigo’s summation into that single syllable in that way only aristocrats had.

Ichigo wasn’t very impressed with his dance card for the evening. He hadn’t personally interacted with those guys much, but from what he’d heard, Rureax was super creepy, Louisenbairn was incredibly arrogant and infatuated with his own power, and talking to Cifer was like talking to a depressed robot. The Primera was alright, but Ichigo had no illusions that talking to the leader of the entire planet was going to be his job. Any way he chose, this evening was definitely not going to be fun. But then again, it wasn’t supposed to be—it was work, after all, even if it was also a party.

When Ichigo said nothing further, Byakuya continued, “Among the Legislature, opening formal relations has majority support, albeit a small majority—the Democrats, Labor-Liberals, and Future Party are on our side, while the Conservatives, Militarists, and that disturbing little Aizen’s Dream party oppose. In the private sector—“

“Okay, okay, enough! I get it! I think that’s enough for me to go on tonight!” Ichigo cried, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender (or maybe to ward Byakuya off.) He knew Byakuya hated being interrupted, but that there was only so much information Ichigo could assimilate at once. And anyway, it wasn’t like Ichigo exactly went out of his way to avoid irritating him—it was actually a nice bonus.

“Very well,” Byakuya said, frowning in disapproval. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Ichigo answered resignedly, shaking his head. “I’ll be there, stiff and starched at 1900.”

With that, Ichigo left Byakuya’s office and headed off to the rec room to find somebody to bitch to. He didn’t want to go! He was majorly tired of politicking. 

This whole mission had turned out to be nothing but politicking. When the Shinigami had heard enough rumors about the stable, flourishing Arrancar society that they couldn’t ignore it anymore, Captain-Commander Kyoraku, working in concert with the Central Forty-Six, had put together a team to go pay their long-lost cousins a visit. They had to be an all purpose group, because they didn’t know what they would find, whether they’d end up talking or fighting.

The Special Diplomatic Corps that Byakuya headed was special, alright—on diplomatic missions to their better-known friends and neighbors, the team didn’t feature so many of Seireitei’s heaviest hitters. Ichigo had thought that was why he’d been instructed to join, to serve as extra muscle if things went pear-shaped. They couldn’t spare a second Captain, so they’d sent Ichigo, who had a Captain’s strength but not a Captain’s administrative duties.

But they hadn’t needed fighters after all, and so Byakuya had decided that since Ichigo was here anyway, he ought to try his hand at diplomacy. Renji had explained his boss’s decision by pointing to the fact that although Ichigo, as a half-Human from Earth showing up out of nowhere with Captain-level strength, had been regarded with much suspicion and hostility when he first arrived on Soul Society, he’d won most of the important people over quite quickly. The hope, apparently, was that that talent would work on Arrancar, too.

And it had, much to his surprise. If he understood the situation correctly, he’d played a major role in gaining the support of two of the Espada, the Arrancar government’s powerful executives. There was the Tres, whose respect he’d earned by taking care of her drunken aide—an outstandingly busty teal-haired woman who had then been a total stranger to him. He and Nel were kind of friends now, which was cool, and the Tres had been more willing to talk with the Shinigami after acquiring evidence that they could be considerate and decent.

He had also gotten to know one of the actual Espada pretty well. That was Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, or rather just Grimmjow, which was how Ichigo referred to him because he couldn’t help but mangle that family name whenever he tried to pronounce it. He was the top man in the Arrancar’s military, heading the combined planetary and space-borne elements.

The Arrancar Hueco Mundo Defense Division (AKA the HMDD or just Defense for short) was a strict rule of the strong by the strongest, much like the Shinigami military. The only difference was that on Hueco Mundo, personal challenges were the normal way for advancing through the ranks, whereas on Soul Society, that practice was a rarely-used throwback and appointment from above was the norm.

Ichigo had found the Arrancar method baffling when he’d learned of it, because surely that system would result in a whole bunch of guys like Kenpachi Zaraki (the only one of the current Captains to have earned his rank via personal combat) in high positions, which didn’t sound entirely healthy for anyone involved.

Apparently, though, you had to have some qualifications in order to issue challenges above a certain rank—certain training courses taken and passed, that sort of thing. Also, one was ordinarily only allowed challenge a direct superior, so there was a limit on how quickly one could advance. 

The challenges weren’t supposed to be fights to the death like the rarely-used Shinigami Captaincy duel, although he’d heard they could be lethal at times. If the challenger won, the commander would either be bumped down a rank, taking the challenger’s now-vacant place, or have to challenge his own superior, unless there was a vacant slot somewhere for him to stay at his same rank.

There was some other way people moved up, too—something about some kind of oath of loyalty? Ichigo didn’t really understand it. It seemed like when someone moved up in rank, if some of his or her subordinates had given this oath, they moved up, too, presuming they were competent enough. “Sworn men,” he’d heard them called. It seemed strange, but maybe it made sense for people to be able to keep trusted subordinates from their early days with them to help out once they got to more advanced positions.

The other crazy thing about the Arrancar military, Ichigo thought, was that they didn’t have an officer/enlisted distinction. Everyone started at the lowest level, although there were different wings of the service, of course. An aptitude test showed whether you were going to start out in the Army, Navy, or Special Combat. The head of the military as a whole had always, apparently with one very famous exception whose name Ichigo couldn’t recall, come up through Special Combat. 

It was interesting, actually—Earth’s forces for combat with other species consisted only of the Marines (who had kept their name despite the fact that the ships that carried them were space vessels) and a Navy (who suffered from same nomenclature problems, but even Ichigo could admit that Astry was a shitty name.) The Shinigami military, on the other hand, was almost entirely organized a small corps of powerful individuals who could tap into energy and forces that they called “spiritual” and that Earth’s best scientists had very little understanding of. So they basically only had, in Arrancar parlance, Special Combat troops.

If the centuries of partnership between Earth and Soul Society ever broke down, there was no telling how things would fall out—individual extra-physical fighting power versus numbers and high-tech weapons was not a showdown Ichigo would like to see. But it was interesting that the Arrancar pursued both strategies, and apparently that diversity made them a force to be reckoned with in this corner of the galactic neighborhood. 

The Arrancar were, by design, a strong and militaristic people. But over the past couple centuries, they had calmed down a little and stopped fighting each other, ending over a millennia of what Ichigo could only call feudalism. They had a few (previously unoccupied) colonies in neighboring star systems, but fortunately they hadn’t turned expansionist, either. Nowadays, they had figured out a better use for their excess fighting spirit—they hired themselves out as mercenaries to defend the homes and colonies of less martial species. 

Apparently, they made a huge profit doing this. And while the individuals who chose that career were well compensated, the mercenary operation as a whole (called the Interstellar Mercenary Division or IMD) was run by the government and the profits were poured into really freaking nice infrastructure and public works, as well as education and scientific development. The amount of resources that the IMD brought to the Arrancar buoyed their standard of living up to a higher level others of similar technological capabilities.

But that was all Ichigo really knew about it. He knew a lot about the HMDD because Grimmjow had explained it to him, but the IMD was a different thing. It was the province of Nnoitra Gilga, the Quinto Espada, who didn’t like the newcomers at all and was quite unlikely to explain the practices of his organization to Ichigo over a _cerveza_. 

He’d tried asking Grimmjow about it, but the IMD and the HMDD were rival organizations, and Gilga and Grimmjow were apparently even less cordial than that, their relationship approaching out-and-out enmity. So the only answers that had been forthcoming were sarcastic and—

“Hey, Ichigo!”

Rukia was calling him from back the way he’d come. Ichigo turned to meet her, a small smile on his face for his friend.

“Hey, Rukia,” he greeted her. “What’s up?”

She tipped her head towards Byakuya’s office and asked, “Were you trying to get out of going to the reception?”

“You know me too well,” Ichigo admitted sheepishly.

“No! You have to come! I’m not just going to spend all night dodging Arruruerrie by myself,” Rukia insisted, holding Ichigo by the shihakusho collar. 

“Well, I do have to come, that much is true. Byakuya’s orders. But also per your brother, I’m forbidden from spending much time talking to Shinigami, so I won’t be able to help much,” Ichigo explained. Then he suggested, “Maybe see if Renji can come, he’d be happy to be your protector.”

“Yeah, I’ll give that a try… But you say you’re not allowed to talk to us?” Rukia asked. She raised an eyebrow at him, amused, and added archly, “I guess you’ll have to talk to your Arrancar crush to pass the time, then.”

“I don’t have a crush, Arrancar or otherwise!” Ichigo protested. “But anyway, I can’t spend much time talking to anyone who isn’t undecided about us. Byakuya says I’ve got to get out there and work my powers of persuasion.”

He’d completely lied to Rukia just now and they both knew it. He did have a crush. He had a big, fat, schoolgirl crush on Grimmjow Jaegerjaques and he absolutely refused to admit it to anyone. If Ichigo had been a woman, the whole thing would have been disastrously cliché; bearing a horrifying resemblance to a popular novel that Ichigo had no desire to live in. He wasn’t sure if the fact that he was a man made it better or worse.

Position of power? Check. 

Older? Check. (Although he only looked a couple years older than Ichigo, Grimmjow had well over a century on him.)

Bad boy attitude? Check.

Confident bordering on arrogant? Check. 

Aggressive and domineering? Check. In a way that would be ten kinds of fun in bed? Also check.

Ridiculously hot? Double check. 

Dad wouldn’t like him? Triple check. (More like Dad's entire species wouldn't like him!)

‘Ridiculously hot’ didn’t quite cover it, actually, Ichigo thought. How about… Sexy as fuck? That one got _all_ the checks.

See? It was _embarrassing_. Could you blame him for not wanting to admit it? Maybe it was some kind of delayed rebound thing—Ichigo couldn’t think of a single person he’d ever met that was less like Orihime.  

Whatever the cause, he had it bad. His heart sped up whenever he was with Grimmjow. He got tongue-tied, tripping over his words. He felt like he was constantly on the verge of making a move, yet couldn’t bring himself to do it. He hadn’t broken out his digital porn stash in weeks, because imagining stripping Grimmjow out of his that charcoal gray ensemble he wore was more arousing than those videos could ever be.  Then, when he saw him the next day or whatever, he couldn’t stop replaying those thoughts and would, so help him, _blush_.

Because Ichigo was not the best at having feelings, all this made him short tempered around Grimmjow. When Ichigo snapped at him, he snapped back, which made their interactions exciting and engaging. And—

“Hello, Soul Society calling Ichigo? Ichigo, are you there?” Rukia sing-songed, smirking at him maliciously. When she’d got his attention, she said, “Here’s a hint: Saying you don’t have a crush and then completely spacing out thinking about him is not very convincing.”

Ichigo hung his head in shame, not even trying to deny that was why he’d become distracted. Rukia laughed at his plight and started teasing him about how he had to be careful not to catch a space STD. 

It was going to be a long, weird night, Ichigo thought to himself. He didn't know the half of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prologue is largely meant to make sure the reader has the information that they need to enjoy the story. (And some supplemental stuff they probably don't. I've been reading a lot of military sci-fi lately so I got a bit caught up in trying to figure out the HCDD's organization and how Grimmjow of all people could end up as a kind of supreme commander.)
> 
> PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY A STORY ABOUT THE MILITARY. THERE IS NO WAR HAPPENING.
> 
> Unfortunately, because its purpose is exposition,the prologue is not the most exciting thing in the world. Hopefully you're intrigued enough by this world to keep on reading, but if you're debating whether or not to hit the back button right now, please give Chapter 1 a chance. I promise it's more lively. *dangles a naked Ichigo in front of reader as incentive*


	2. I am a Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something strange is happening to Ichigo. Most notably, in his pants.

Ichigo made his way down the corridor towards the med-bay, over-careful like a drunk, his head swimming. He had to get to Doc Hanataro; he figured somebody must’ve slipped him something at the diplomatic reception because this just wasn’t normal. It was probably that pink-haired creep that reminded him of Kurotsuchi, he seemed like the type to go around spiking people’s drinks. But then, why had he just let Ichigo leave after that? That didn’t make any sense. It seemed to kind of defeat the point of dosing somebody with a… well, Ichigo supposed you’d call it an aphrodisiac. He had no damn clue what the reason was, but since he couldn’t think for more than thirty consecutive seconds without some pornographic mental image intruding on his reasoning, he’d have to figure it out later, once the Doc got this shit out of his system.

He froze in his tracks when heard somebody approaching, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the floor and bulkheads telling him that they were about to turn the corner and come towards him. Ichigo ducked into the cross-corridor to hide—there was no other option. He could not allow himself to be seen right now. Please, please, please, he thought, addressing the prayer to anyone who might be listening, don’t let anyone see me like this! His superiors would never take him seriously again if they saw him in such a state, and though he didn’t have subordinates per se, some of the regulars looked up to him and he couldn’t bear to become the object of their scornful amusement.

He could make out their voices as they came closer—oh hell no, it was Rukia and her brother. He’d die of mortification if his best friend saw him like this, and the oh-so-proper Captain Byakuya’s disdain would be almost as bad. Fortunately, this hallway had another intersecting corridor just down the way, so if he went into that, they wouldn’t he able to see him.

Ichigo tried not to think about how since she was his friend, Rukia would want to make him feel better. Lately, he preferred men, but if Rukia would let him… Ichigo could just imagine the feeling of her small, strong body pressed up against his as he took her against this bulkhead right here. She would wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around her neck, her body opening around him, welcoming him. Ichigo bit his lip as he imagined how she’d feel inside—Rukia was such a tiny woman, he bet she’d be insanely tight. That would feel so fucking good right now…

Ichigo shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts away. Rukia might be his best friend; but she’d probably still kill him for thinking about her so crudely. Certainly, her brother Byakuya would have no compunction about laying down the law on that subject. He was one cold guy, but he’d give anyone who disrespected his sister a piece of his mind by way of Senbonzakura. Although, Ichigo realized, there was something else Byakuya could give him… He felt his pulse pick up—the idea excited him even more than thinking of Rukia had.

Instead of Rukia getting taken against the bulkhead, it would be Ichigo held there, suspended, or bent over with his face mashed against the cool metal; either way was fine with him. His knees almost buckled under the crushing force of the arousal that the thought summoned up and he had to brace his hands against the bulkhead just to hold himself up. This didn’t help his situation at all, because it was also what he’d have to do if Byakuya was behind him, looking cool and unruffled as always while he split Ichigo open on his dick. His eyes would be half-lidded as always, and he’d be nearly silent, only a bit of color on his cheeks giving away his desire as he methodically took Ichigo apart, giving it to him hard and steady. Even when he came, even when he—oh, god, that was so fucking hot—spilled his wet, sticky come into Ichigo’s body, he’d only let out a single soft grunt of satisfaction. Ichigo thought he himself would probably scream. 

These thoughts had not helped his condition, but they had kept him occupied while the Kuchikis passed by. Ichigo ducked back out into the main hallway and continued on his way to the med-bay, his “symptoms” even worse now. 

After a bit, he made it to the infirmary, where sure enough, Hanataro was working night duty.

“Kurosaki! What’s wrong, you look…” Hanataro trailed off as he took in details beyond just Ichigo’s flushed face and the fact that the hair at his temples was damp with sweat. 

“I think somebody drugged me,” Ichigo told him, hoping it didn’t come out sounding too breathless.  
“Oh no!” Hanataro cried. “That’s terrible! Before we do anything else, let me take some blood so I can run it through the molecular analyzer. Did this happen when you were down on the planet tonight?” 

“I guess so,” Ichigo replied, then couldn’t help but inhale deeply as Hanataro bent close to stick the needle in his arm. He smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, which was not terribly appealing, but underneath that there was the warm musky scent of a male and the ozone tang common to all Shinigami, especially the ones talented in Kido. That part was quite appealing. He’d never noticed it before, but Hanataro had a pretty cute mouth and soft-looking hair that would feel nice to tangle his fingers in…

“Ah, very good, I’ll just stick this in the machine. Now, while it does what it does, why don’t you tell me what all is wrong? Start from the beginning.”

Ichigo tore his eyes away from the movements of Hanataro’s lips as he spoke, then took a deep breath and began, “First, I started to get kind of dizzy and hot, like I’d just had too much to drink. Everybody started to look a little more appealing than they usually would… I just figured that the drinks they served at the reception must have been deceptively strong. I only had the one, but I don’t usually drink much, so…” 

“When did you realize it was something else?

“Not really until after I got back. My mind had been, um, wandering, for the later part of the party, so when I got back to my quarters I decided to take a shower and, you know…”

Hanataro looked at him blandly. “Masturbate?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ichigo agreed. Doctors, he recalled then, seemed to lack the facility for awkwardness. It didn’t affect them at all. “It was… not like usual. Took about half as long and—“ Ichigo steeled himself, knowing this was probably relevant but feeling completely ridiculous saying it nonetheless, “—and it was, like, spectacular. I can’t remember the last time I came that hard.” 

Hanataro made a note on the clipboard he had acquired from somewhere and then nodded, prompting Ichigo to continue. 

“But it didn’t help. I was still… aroused. So—” 

Hanataro interrupted him. “Was this a purely physical response, or more of a mental thing? Or both?”

“Both,” Ichigo confirmed. 

“I know this might seem irrelevant, but you never know: was there anyone or anything in particular you were fixated on?”

Ichigo licked his lips. He’d been doing that so much that they felt dry and irritated. “The Arrancar, they’ve got this guy from their military that I kind of weirdly hit it off with. He invited me to work out with him a couple days ago and we ended up sparring, having this impromptu exhibition match for a few of the regulars from both our groups. It was a little… intense. Charged, even. I was thinking about how it might have gone if we didn’t have an audience.”

“Jaegerjaques? The Sexta Espada?” Hanataro asked, making a note. “Yes, I heard about that.” 

Ichigo wondered if Grimmjow would find it amusing to know that his rank or title or whatever it was sounded like sort of like it meant “the sexiest Espada” one of the language’s of Ichigo’s homeworld. Oh, and he was, though—if you liked big boobs, Tier Harribel was your girl, but Ichigo only had eyes for Grimmjow’s wicked smirk, bad attitude, and flawlessly sculpted body. He would give up a year’s wages to spend a few minutes tracing the contours of Grimmjow’s abs with his tongue. Oh, what a wonderful thing that would be… 

“Kurosaki? Are you alright?” Hanataro asked. Ichigo started, realizing he’d been staring off into space, daydreaming. 

“Right! I’m fine! Well, no, I’m not, but I’m tracking.” After a moment’s pause, he continued, “So anyway, I was a little confused, but I figured that I’m still pretty young, right? It’s not normally zero, but I have a pretty fast recovery time. It didn’t worry me, much, and I just, er, repeated my earlier actions. It still pretty awesome, though not as much as the first time, and it did buy me about ten minutes of relief.”

Hanataro made another note and a little thinky ‘hmm’ sound. Ichigo found this pretty funny, although he fought down the urge to laugh in case he wouldn’t be able to stop. This whole situation… Geez.

“After that, I started to get worried when I got hard again. I realized it wasn’t right, but I hoped it would go away on its own. So I just tried to ignore it for about an hour, not very successfully. It’s really not just my body; I tried to watch a movie, but all I could think about is what I’d do with the various characters—even the ones that wouldn’t ordinarily catch my attention—if I could get them alone. I want to fuck everyone; it’s so weird. And I’m still kind of dizzy, plus my skin feels like… like after you get out of really hot water, kind of prickly and too sensitive.”

It felt weirdly good to say all this; expressing it aloud somehow made it feel less like it was all in his head, less like some kind of celibacy-induced madness. Ugh, it had been so damn long since he’d had anything like actual sex. Unless you counted rushed post-workout hand jobs, which Ichigo didn’t think you should, it had been nearly two years. Not since Orihime, and even then, the sex had never been one of the best points of their relationship.

Hanataro dutifully made notes of all information he found to be relevant, then got up to check the molecular analyzer. It beeped while he was on his way over and he changed courses to head for his computer instead, to look at the readout, apparently. 

As he read, his eyebrows drew down and he said, ‘hmm…’ again. This time, it didn’t seem funny, it seemed ominous.

“Well, Kurosaki, this thing doesn’t detect any drugs in your system, and it should have if they were there.”  
What?! Ichigo couldn’t think beyond his surprise. Was the machine broken?

“I suppose that something might have already completely metabolized, but if that were the case, I’d expect your symptoms to be getting better,” Hanataro mused.

“They’re getting worse!” Ichigo protested, his voice coming out too shrill.

“Your hormone levels are out of control, though—dopamine, testosterone; oxytocin—anything associated with sex and pleasure is massively elevated, as is your cortisol, which is indicative of high stress levels. It’s… could it be some kind of infection? A local thing?”

Hanataro thought for a moment, then said, “Right. I’m going to get some more tests going, a re-check of this one, along with a white blood cell count and a scan to look for foreign bacteria. I’m also going to have to get CMO Unohana in on this, and she may send a message back home to Kurotsuchi and/or liaise with our counterparts in the Las Noches military hospital.”

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful. Were they going to send out a news bulletin, too? “Shinigami Special Diplomacy Corps Member Ichigo Kurosaki Stricken With Bizarre Local Ailment, Now Stuck With Extremely Persistent Erection: More at Eleven O’clock!” At least Hanataro had made him realize that he hadn’t gone totally insane—he still found Kurotsuchi as repulsive as always. 

As Hanataro rounded up another needle and what looked to be an unduly large number of vials, he paused to fix Ichigo with a serious look. “You might not like this question, Ichigo, and I don’t mean to insult you, but I have to ask. Do you think you are a danger to your fellow crew members?”

Ichigo was halfway across the room before his brain caught up with his anger and he stopped in his tracks, considering. At length, he said, “Not directly, not in the way you’re saying. I don’t feel… I don’t feel at all like I would be any more willing than normal—which is to say, not at all—to do something like that. But I’m intimidating; I know a lot of people on this ship either look up to me or are scared of me and might not be able to refuse me if I approached them. I don’t think I would take advantage of that, but…” 

Hanataro nodded seriously, then said, “Right. Well, I’ll only give you a mild sedative, then, unless you’d prefer I knock you out. And no, you can’t refuse it—we need to try and calm you down a little. We have a few sets of quarters adjoining this infirmary that we would ordinarily use for high-ranking patients needing close but not constant supervision; you can wait there. I think your situation merits a bit of privacy. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to lock the door. We’ll need to quarantine you—you can imagine what a problem it would be if the whole ship came down with this.”

Ichigo nodded mutely, helpless before the complete strangeness of the situation. He wondered if Hanataro was serious about the quarantine thing, or if he really did think Ichigo might force himself on one of his fellow Shinigami, but as angry as the idea made him, he did understand that it was a sensible precaution on Hanataro’s part.

Hanataro proceeded to take blood and administer a tablet that he was to let dissolve under his tongue, then showed Ichigo to his temporary quarters. Standing in the doorway, Hanataro said, “I see no reason, at this point, to forbid you from trying to make yourself more comfortable by means of self-pleasure. However, if you experience any pain, please stop immediately and let me know.”

He reached into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a disorganized fistful of packets, which he held out until Ichigo cupped his hands to receive them. With that, Hanataro stepped out of the doorway and the door swished closed behind him, leaving Ichigo alone in his temporary room, holding a whole bunch of single-use packets of medical lubricant. He sighed—this had to be the most surreal thing that had ever happened to him, and that was seriously saying something.

Setting the packets down on a nearby table, Ichigo proceeded to explore the new quarters. They were nice, nicer than his own; about like a Vice-Captain’s room. There were just the two rooms, a bedroom and a bathroom, but the bedroom was partitioned with a pair of folding screens to make a little sitting room separate from the sleeping area. The bathroom was unexpectedly luxurious, with a real tub. Ichigo didn’t know if even the Captains had bathtubs—the mess potential was huge on a spaceship—but he supposed it made sense as this room was designed for high-ranking convalescents, and a long soak was good for what ails you, after all.

Other than the tub, this place looked a lot like Renji’s room. It did not, however, contain Renji, a fact which greatly disappointed him all of a sudden. Renji would help out his friend and not begrudge him the favor, at least Ichigo assumed so, since the two of them had occasionally exchanged favors of that kind in the past. He and Renji worked out together a couple times a week, and sometimes, afterwards, Renji would catch his eye and they would skip the locker room showers and head to Renji’s room to shower there, in a shower that was just barely big enough for the two of them.

They never kissed, and they never did anything more advanced than jerking each other off, but it was better than nothing. Renji wasn’t really comfortable doing those kinds of things with another man because he had grown up in a poor, culturally backwards part of the Rukon district, where the popular opinion was that the widespread bisexuality of Seireitei culture was a sign of decadence and decline. Renji didn’t really believe that, of course, but deeply ingrained attitudes like that were hard to shake. This actually suited Ichigo well enough, because after his last relationship went down in flames,he wanted to keep things strictly casual and friendly. Also, Ichigo was pretty sure that Renji was actually pretty much straight and only messing around with his male friend because even another guy’s hand was a nice change from your own, once in a while. Renji was absolutely inept with women, mostly due to his long-running unrequited love for Rukia. 

So that whole thing was really kind of stupid, but rubbing up against Renji’s hot, hard body sounded really fucking good right now. Renji was taller and broader than Ichigo and Ichigo liked that about him; he also liked the long, thick cock that went with Renji’s large frame. He let out a soft groan at the thought of it; his mouth actually watering—he always wanted to go to his knees and suck Renji off, but he didn’t want to alarm him or make him feel compelled to return the favor, which he obviously didn’t want to do. That seemed stupid, in retrospect—it was such a nice cock that it really seemed a shame not to appreciate it fully. It wasn’t just big, it was also well-shaped, quite straight with a fat, plummy head just made to suck on.

Abruptly, Ichigo grabbed up the mess of packets and made his way to the bed, where he quickly undressed and lay down. He closed his eyes and pictured Renji’s shower, pictured Renji, wet and naked and hard for him (or at least hard in his general vicinity), water streaming over those tattoos that Ichigo really wanted to trace with his tongue. It was his fantasy, so he could, and in his mind, he did, starting at the ones across the top of his chest, just under his collarbones, trailing kisses, licking and scraping his teeth along the lines, detouring to play with Renji’s nipples, which Ichigo knew to be sensitive even though Renji didn’t like to have them touched. Renji would gasp his name, taken aback, but wouldn’t ask him to stop.

Outside of the fantasy, Ichigo slowly stroked his cock, which was slippery with the thick gel supplied by the doc. It felt mind-blowingly good, as if the last time he’d done it was weeks ago instead of barely an hour; so good that that he physically could not restrain the small sounds that spilled from his lips. He held three fingers of his free hand together and brought them to his mouth, wrapping his lips around his fingers and pretending they were Renji’s dick.

He imagined the way Renji would swear when Ichigo swallowed him down, how he’d look as he stared down at Ichigo, his hair hanging in wavy wet strands around his face and plastered to his tattooed, well-muscled chest. Ichigo sucked harder on his fingers, tightened his grip on himself; fuck, yeah, he wanted that, wanted to make Renji moan, make him grab Ichigo’s hair to hang on.

Somehow that idea, strong hands tugging at his hair, made his imaginary Renji undergo a transformation. In his mind’s eye, he was looking up into slightly slanted bright blue eyes now, and he wasn’t in the shower anymore but in the Sexta Espada’s office, sitting in Grimmjow’s desk chair as Grimmjow leaned against the desk in front of him and used his grip on Ichigo’s hair to work his mouth up and down on his cock.

Ichigo was vaguely aware of his moan as this new, even hotter image sprang into his mind. He wondered if Grimmjow was a talker, if he might say something like, “That’s it, baby; suck it just like that” or “Hold still for a minute and let me fuck that pretty mouth” or “Such a slut, Ichigo, lettin’ me use that mouth and gettin’ off on it” or even “Enough, I want ya over the desk; better spread yer legs ‘cause I’m gonna fuck ya now.”

This last was a winner. Panting, Ichigo rolled over so he was half on his front and half on his side, legs wide apart, then grabbed another packet and tore it open with his teeth. The generous dab of lubricant on the end of his finger was cold, but it warmed quickly as he massaged his asshole for a moment and then slid the finger inside, all the way. Ichigo gasped ecstatically—this, this was what he wanted. This was what he’d been craving the most. 

He swirled it around and moved it in and out, imagining the finger was Grimmjow’s, stretching and preparing him. He would groan as he first slid it inside, praising Ichigo for how good he felt inside, how hot and tight. How yielding, too—Ichigo did this often enough, and he thought that his body was relaxing and adjusting more quickly than normal. 

Ichigo/imaginary Grimmjow slid another finger in alongside the first, twisting and scissoring, and he said, “Takin’ me so easy, aren’t ya? Yer body’s so eager ta get fucked.” 

Ichigo gasped, “Yes!” and it served as both agreement and exclamation. 

He curled his fingers to press against his prostate, and his whole body jerked with pleasure. He thought he might come right then and there, but he didn’t quite go over the edge. Oh, god—that didn’t usually feel that good. It felt good, sure, and he quite liked it, but right now it felt amazing. He pressed there again and this time it didn’t startle him into a spasm but drew out a long, low moan. Yeah, yeah…

In his mind, Grimmjow chuckled and called him a slut, but he sounded so pleased about it that Ichigo didn’t mind. He asked, “Ya ready?” 

“Yeah,” Ichigo replied, his tongue feeling thick and awkward in his mouth.

He withdrew his fingers, and his voice was low and hot when he said, “Tell me what you want. Ask me nice.”

“I want you to fuck me; please, I want your cock,” Ichigo said, aloud in the real world so he could hear the need in his own voice and be excited by it, a twinge of shame running through him at even the thought of someone hearing him beg like that. Really, he would never…“Come on, put it in me. I…” 

He knuckled at his hole, imagining Grimmjow rubbing the head of his dick there teasingly. “Ya sound so fuckin’ hot; I just wanna keep teasin’ ya so you keep talkin’.” 

“Don’t!” Ichigo protested, his voice halfway to a wail, and oh, god, he hoped he wasn’t under surveillance here. The way his voice sounded, so needy, so slutty, was exciting exactly because he would never really allow himself to say things like that where anyone could hear. “I need it! I need your… your dick in me. Grimmjow, fuck me!” 

Grimmjow groaned, said, “Okay, babe; I’ll give ya what ya want,” and pushed inside him. Ichigo moaned, too loud, and his four fingers weren’t nearly what he wanted but the way they stretched him wide was good enough. He craved Grimmjow’s cock deep inside him, all the way, and his hips lifted uselessly, trying to get more of something that wasn’t there. 

He couldn’t bear to drag this out any longer. Ichigo curled his fingers to touch that sweet spot, rocking his hand hard so it felt like he was being fucked just right, deliberately stimulated right where he wanted it most. Ichigo cried out sharply, and the hand that had gone still a while ago started moving, jerking him off fast and tight. 

In his mind, Grimmjow’s voice sounded overcome, strung tight as he tried to restrain himself. “Too good,” he gasped, “Yer too good, Ichigo; I ain’t gonna last. Aw, fuck, I can’t…” 

“Don’t hold back,” Ichigo encouraged, just as breathless, “Take what you want; I’m gonna come, too—“

Grimmjow groaned and fucked into him harder, making harsh, wonderful sounds. 

Ichigo was so close, and his usual pre-orgasm babble came out low and rough, imitating Grimmjow, the sound of it driving him even higher. “I’m gonna come inside you, fuckin’ fill ya up with it; that whatcha want? Want it in you?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes…”

The hand he was using to fuck himself froze, his fingers as deep inside as he could get them, curled against that spot while his other hand stripped his cock; fast, faster, fast as he could. He groaned in the way he thought Grimmjow might when he came, harsh and loud, and Ichigo imagined he could feel the hot flood of his come inside him even as the fantasy began to dissolve into white light, and Ichigo felt like he was the one dissolving, coming with a hoarse shout all his own.

It was nearly dry, so intense it sort of hurt, his body locked into a rigid arc as his dick twitched and pulsed violently in his hand, a few pearly drops spilling out of him. He managed to hang onto some of his fantasy, imagined Grimmjow bent over him, panting against the back of his neck, his hips flexing and grinding, buried as deep in Ichigo’s body as he could get as Ichigo spasmed underneath him. 

He came back to reality a bit, felt his face mashed into his pillow and the wet patch under the corner of his mouth where he’d been drooling. He tried to catch his breath but it was hard with the pillow there, so he carefully withdrew his fingers from his body and flopped onto his back, panting hard. 

Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling of the medical guest room. He didn’t much like it; silly as it was, he felt terribly lonely now that his imaginary companion had departed. Ichigo didn’t really know why he was so fixated on the Arrancar, but he figured it for a strange amalgam of a perfectly ordinary crush and whatever foreign influence was making him so damned horny. But the fact of the matter was that he wanted nothing more than to feel Grimmjow’s chest resting against his back as they drifted off… That sounded so very good right now.

He couldn’t do much about his desire for company, but he did think he could fall asleep. There was a box of tissues on the nightstand and Ichigo used those to clean himself up as best he could without getting up and going to the sink or shower. He really ought to at least wash his hands, but he was really very comfortable. A bit of scrambling got him under the covers instead of on top of them, and he fell into a doze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Week on El Juramento: Ichigo dreams and is distressed; a strange sick day; and Byakuya Kuchiki.


	3. Hanging Out and Hanging On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was kind of like staying home with a cold or the flu, only about a million times weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT! Chapter Warning: This chapter starts off with Ichigo's dreams, some of which are really more like nightmares. One of them merits a TRIGGER WARNING for RAPE.**
> 
> The sequence in question is relatively brief and not all that graphic, and it is a dream, but does depict rape. It is meant to be quite unpleasant. It's in there for a reason, but if the reader does not wish to view this material, then, to be safe, I would recommend just skipping to the point where Ichigo wakes up, denoted by a horizontal line. (This is only about 1/7th of the way into this long-ass chapter.) The reader should be able to pick up the important points from Ichigo's subsequent thoughts on the matter, which I deem unlikely to be triggering. Of course, I cannot say this for sure as relevant to any given person, so read with care. 
> 
> Unrelated Note: I'm sorry this chapter is so long. I couldn't think of any better way to break it up.

Despite how tired he was, Ichigo slept badly. He woke often, tossing and turning, and when he did sleep his rest was troubled by strange, fragmented dreams. His unceasing arousal was reflected in their content, but it was commingled with his anxiety and unease in twisted, dream-logic ways. Shifting faces, shifting bodies, people he knew and people he didn’t, people he’d never thought of that way—people he should never, _would never_ think of that way. 

Standing naked before a mirror only to have his distorted reflection crawl out and kneel at his feet, murmuring “My king, my king,” and making him bleed with every flick of its razor-sharp, blue-black tongue; wake up, roll over. Being passed around a room of men whose faces he couldn’t see, growing more and more desperate with each one but unable to find release no matter what he let them do; wake up again, drink some water, go back to sleep.

And then he dreamt of Orihime, his girl, sweet and lush as always. She was beautiful, looking up at him with her shining hair spread fan-like over the pillows in the bed they’d shared. It was dark, but the faint orange glow of the city coming in their window illuminated her face enough for him to see her smile up at him, shy but wishing to please him.

He wanted her. It swept through him, sudden and fierce, so he kissed her, hard. Ichigo had to have her, had to fuck her—her soft cry when he bit down on her bottom lip was beyond exciting. Encouraged by her response, he pulled her up to her hands and knees and took her roughly from behind, his fingertips leaving deep, vicious bruises on her hips. She was tight and hot and best of all, she was _his._ Orihime didn’t normally like this kind of wild, animal passion, so usually he controlled himself, but giving in to what he wanted was nothing short of perfectly satisfying. And besides, it was working out well—he’d never heard his quiet, reserved Orihime get this loud before. 

She screamed for him, screamed his name, and even though something seemed strange about that, it turned him on so much that he couldn’t think straight; couldn’t do anything but fuck her harder and race for the finish. It was then, right on the edge, that he finally realized what was wrong, what the words in between the repetitions of his name were. He finally heard them, and he heard _no,_ and he heard _stop_ , and he heard a broken sob of _please._

The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he started to scramble back, started to cry out some negation or apology, but it was too late, too late, _too late_ and he was coming. Sick realization and perfect ecstasy twined together inside him into a writhing, twisting mass that poured from his mouth and crawled up over his face, mask-like, worming into his nostrils and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, _he couldn’t breathe_ —

Ichigo woke up shivering with fear and fever in sweat-damp, come-sticky sheets, his breath coming fast and shallow as he rode out wave after wave of horror and nausea. When the worst of the physical reaction had passed, he slid over to the other side of the bed and curled into a ball, trying to get back to sleep, but he was so disgusted with himself that it eluded him. That old familiar anger was roiling around inside of him, alternating between turning inward and lashing out at a world that felt like it didn't fit quite right. 

What was wrong with him? If it wasn’t a drug, then what? Why was this happening? Things like this didn’t happen to people, or at least they didn’t happen to other people. But weird shit had always followed Ichigo around; so in a way this was just par for the course. He didn’t think he was that much of a troublemaker, but he must be—maybe this was some kind of karmic punishment for all the other fucked up situations he’d been involved in. That wasn’t fair, though—he only did what was right, what he had to, what was needed to protect those near and dear to him. 

Or at least that was his what he told himself. He had a justification for every fight he’d ever been in, always protecting someone, always doing the right thing, but that didn’t change the fact that he fucking loved it. He loved battle, loved the clash and clang of swords and the adrenaline that poured through his body, loved the feeling of unleashing something huge and powerful that he got whenever he performed his Bankai; loved the abandon of it, the all-consuming focus. Loved the rush of victory, of holding his opponent’s life in his hands, and he even loved the exquisite fear that came with losing, the fatalistic calm that came from the sure knowledge that he was not in control; that he couldn’t do a damn thing about whether he lived or died.

So in the end, what good was all that talk of his morals and his duty to use his strength to protect people, anyway? He was really in it for the thrill; the sheer animal physicality of it; the feeling of being so utterly alive. He liked to pretend he was civilized, like to imagine that there was something about him that was different from those guys who fought just because they loved it. But once you stripped away all his justifications, he was just like Kenpachi, the beast of the Eleventh Division. A beast—that sounded about right; he felt like a beast tonight, like some wild, unthinking thing at the height of its rutting season. He was worse than Kenpachi, even, because Kenpachi only sought out the strong. Ichigo, the true Ichigo, the subconscious Ichigo that came out in his dreams, was apparently more than willing to prey on the weak. Apparently that was what got him off—the dream had, he knew. That was the worst part—he couldn’t make himself forget how _good_ it had felt.

When he finally dropped off again, Orihime was waiting. She was crying, distraught and in pain, sitting there with her knees pulled to her chest. He could see the scratches on her hips; the bites on her neck, and he couldn’t stop staring at the few drops of bright, bright red spattered over their crisp, white sheets. He apologized, over and over. It wasn’t enough and he knew it, but what else could he do?

“How can I make this right?” Ichigo asked, desperate, pleading.

He’d never known Orihime to demand an eye for an eye, but she did. She said she wanted him to experience what she had, so he could see how much it hurt; how much he’d hurt her.

It didn’t quite work out the way she wanted. When she fucked him in some dreamish way, it was no punishment at all—he loved it. She took him hard enough to genuinely hurt, with only the barest preparation, but he enjoyed it anyway. Her slender hands had somehow become strong enough to hold him down, and her soft body had become hard and sturdy at his back, her cock inside him utterly massive. When he turned to look at her, it wasn’t Orihime at all but Kenpachi who grinned back at him, throughly enjoying himself, unselfconscious in his pleasure.

Orihime was in front of him now, holding his flushed face in her soft, cool hands, wiping the sweat from his brow and gently flicking away the tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Her eyes were teary, too, but while Ichigo’s tears were from pain and sensory overload, Orihime’s eyes were full of disappointment and pity. 

“Is this what you are, Ichigo?” she asked, soft and tremulous, a bizarre counterpoint to Kenpachi’s hard, steady rhythm. “Is this what you want, more than you want me?”

And then she was repeating the words of their last conversation, the aftermath of their final fight, when they had argued in the kitchen and she brought him up short by flinging up her santenkesshun shield. He’d wanted to be offended, he’d wanted to be furious with her for assuming the worst of him, but no matter how many times he replayed the situation in his mind, all he could remember was that he had been _so angry._ He remembered the helpless frustration and self-directed rage and the awareness that it was all crashing down around him, how he’d paced like a caged tiger as he’d railed at her for her refusal to get mad, to scream and throw things at him like he thought she should. How she’d just looked so fucking sad and it had only pissed him off more, and he could never be sure he hadn’t been going to hit her just to make her react.

Then he’d sat there on the floor in a stupor as she’d said, “I don’t think we’re good for each other, Ichigo. I don’t think I can be what you need; you’re too much for me. I loved you because you’re strong and proud and beautiful, and you’ll do anything to protect the ones you care for. But you can’t protect me from who you are or from who I am, and if we don’t stop this, the weight of that will crush us both. I’m sorry, Ichigo; I can’t be the one to…” 

That night, she had broken off without finishing the sentence and walked out the door, without telling him what it was that he needed that she couldn’t be. Now, she kept stroking his cheek and looking sad, and she continued, “I can’t be the one to meet you at every turn and check your momentum when you need it. I will not fight you; I refuse. And I’m sorry, Ichigo, but I can’t be the one who never fears you. I’m just too human, and I know you try, Ichigo, but we are not the same.”

She stood and turned, walked away the same way she had that night, her shining red hair swinging behind her. Kenpachi was gone from behind him, now, too, and the two of them left him there in a heap on the floor, naked, hollowed out and empty in every way it was possible to be.

 

* * *

 

It was morning when Ichigo next woke, and this time it was his pillow that was wet instead of the sheets. It was still really early, but he was _not_ going back to sleep right now. No fucking way. Maybe later, once the immediacy of his dreams had faded, he could take a nap, but right now he was too scared that he’d end up in the same place he had just been. He groaned miserably and scrubbed at his face with his hands, then instantly regretted it, recalling his minimal clean-up efforts of the night before. Ugh, fucking gross. He felt, if anything, even more tired than last night. Maybe a shower would help.

It didn’t really help with the achy, exhausted, almost hung-over feeling, but the water spray felt good and the warmth of it comforted him a little, as did the routine. He washed his hair and rinsed it, feeling as if he was washing some of his dreams from his head, too, their images already fading. He really, _really_ hoped they could get this problem under control before tonight; that had been the worst night he’d had in a long time, and he had absolutely zero desire to repeat the experience. 

Despite his lingering unease, the simple mechanics of cleaning himself had, unsurprisingly, twitched his cock back to full hardness. Ichigo thunked his head against the shower wall with a grunt of dismay—he was not at all in the mood to do anything about that. He was feeling better than he had late last night—in the light of morning he realized that his bout of self-hatred in the interstice between his dreams had been excessive—but the fact that he felt better than he had then really wasn’t saying much.

Dreams were dreams, he told himself, and sometimes they were fucked up. This did not make him a bad person. Actions were what counted, not thoughts, and especially not thoughts he had no control over. Despite his cognitive awareness of this, he was still edgy and uneasy, and the lack of decent sleep itself wasn’t helping. He’d always been terrified of hurting someone he cared about, ever since he was a little kid and he had begun to realize how much stronger he was than the other boys and girls. Now this shit, whatever it was that was making him like this, had put a particularly nasty face on that fear—it actually made sense that he’d had a dream like that. And of course it had been abut Orihime; after all, the fact that he was always so afraid of hurting her, especially in bed, was one of the reasons their relationship had failed.

More than his amateur self-psychoanalysis, the simple fact of being awake continued to make him feel better. The water coursing over his skin was such a lovely, simple pleasure that he just stood under the spray for a long time, trying to clear his mind of anything but the sensation.

He wasn’t very good at clearing his mind, even in the best of times. And now that psychological discomfort was taking up a bit less of his mental space, his mind was beginning to get on board with the program his body had started. He was not going to jerk off, though—he straight-up refused, at least for a while. Not before three hours from now, he decided. He needed to prove to himself that he still had some self-control.

The slide of his hands over his chest and sides as he rinsed himself off reminded him of showering with Renji, but he managed to stop the resultant cascade of mental images by focusing on what he wanted to eat for breakfast. He wasn’t super hungry, but he knew he ought to eat. So, what sounded good? He liked to eat fruit for breakfast sometimes… He got a little sidetracked on the slippery, sweet flesh of mangos and various visions of people eating bananas (don’t even get him started on strawberries), so after some consideration, he decided fruit was right out. Cereal was pretty un-sexy, but the idea of the corresponding milk made him a little uneasy. Toast it was. There was absolutely nothing erotic about toast. 

The same turned out not to be true of jam, which he imagined painting Renji’s tattoos with to make them even tastier, but he made it through breakfast despite the, ah, hardship. Ichigo suppressed a giggle, realizing that he was feeling kind of punch-drunk and giddy, presumably in part from lack of sleep and in part because his whole body chemistry had gone haywire. He thought that perhaps he would like some more sedatives, but he wasn’t about to ask for them. So, he needed to relax. Well, in that case, he knew what activity had nearly always worked to relax him in the past…

But Ichigo was a stubborn guy, and he refused to give in. He’d said three hours, and three hours it would be. It was still early, well before the beginning of the day’s main shift, so it might be a while before anyone from medical got back to him about what was going on, and he had to do _something._ He’d watch a movie, he decided. He called up the shared media storage of those members of the Special Diplomatic Corps who liked Earth popular culture and started clicking through his options. While there were a lot of things to admire about Shinigami culture, their taste in entertainment was not really one them. So while Ichigo was the only guy on this ship born and raised on Earth, he was not the only one who enjoyed his home planet’s movies, television, and music. 

First, he watched one of his favorite movies from when he was a kid, an animated film about a little girl who wandered into a strange, magical world. It was enchanting as always, sometimes beautiful, sometimes cute, sometimes frightening. It was one of the movies he watched when he was feeling lonely or sad or otherwise distressed, and it comforted him the same way it always did. And none of its main characters were attractive, so that was definitely a plus. His mind still wandered, though, and it was weird thinking about sex while he was watching a movie he’d loved since before he even knew what sex was.

The movie ended, Ichigo got up and moved around a little bit, even though he didn’t feel like it at all. He went through a thorough stretching routine and did a few sit-ups, but left it at that. It felt awkward and strange doing things like jumping jacks, since even when he wasn’t thinking about anything, he was a little over half hard. It did make him feel a little less tense and generally better, though, to work out some of the kinks in his back and neck from his miserable night.

Then Ichigo made himself some tea and looked through the available movies, rejecting most of them for being too full of attractive people. He selected a zombie movie, and hoping that their rotten grossness would prevent him from getting too excited. It sort of worked if he really focused on the zombies, but not so much if he focused on the living. The film’s hero looked awfully good while he was fighting the zombies or even while he was running away from them. 

Unlike last night, it was mostly just the hero that grabbed his attention, along with his older-but-still-handsome mentor. The hero’s love interest and the several other attractive women in the movie held no real interest for him. He noted objectively that one of them had a truly spectacular ass, and last night the sight of it would have left him struggling to keep his hand off his dick, but today it didn’t do anything for him.

The hero, though, stirred up all kinds of dirty thoughts—although, interestingly, _his_ ass didn’t really grab Ichigo’s attention either. Ichigo was ordinarily as switchy as they came, but this morning he wasn’t feeling the idea of topping really at all. He wouldn’t turn it down, obviously, but the idea of getting fucked was infinitely more exciting.

So, what, was whatever he’d picked up making him _more gay?_ That would be truly ridiculous. Surely it was only the interaction between his own current preferences and this whatever-it-was, not the action of the whatever-it-was itself. While Ichigo, like most Shinigami, was cheerfully pansexual overall, he went through periods where he preferred one sex or the other, and right now, he was pretty into guys. So this whatever-it-was must be just sort of enhancing that, for some reason. That made sense, right? 

As for his fixation on certain particulars of configuration, well, the subconscious was a tricky thing. Maybe after his fucked-up dreams last night he only wanted to do it some way where he couldn’t hurt anyone. That seemed plausible, he supposed. Or maybe it was just because of the particular guys he was most attracted to—the movie hero, Renji, especially that goddamn Espada, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, among others. They were all very… masculine. Not that you couldn’t be masculine and like to bottom (Ichigo himself was hardly girly, after all), but still. A big part of what made Grimmjow (for example) appealing was his effortless confidence, the way he commanded any room he was in. He fairly oozed dominance; there was no doubt in Ichigo’s mind how things would go if he managed to sleep with that one. Grimmjow was almost certainly a capital-T Top. Neither of those explanations quite matched with the strength of his preference, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

Ugh, damn, why had he started thinking about Grimmjow? Now he couldn’t stop. He was  just so… so… _sexy_. Ichigo had wanted him from the moment he’d laid eyes on him and the attraction had only grown since then. Grimmjow was a prickly, sharp-tongued guy, but somehow that only made him more interesting. He kind of got under Ichigo’s skin, in fact he had a remarkable talent for it, but Ichigo suspected that was, at least in part, what was known as ‘sexual tension.’ The way they riled each other up made him think they’d be spectacularly hot together.

He was sure Grimmjow would be fantastic in bed, all wild and uncontrolled and intense, with every bit of his considerable attention directed at Ichigo alone. That last part, at least, Ichigo could easily imagine. In their mock battle, Grimmjow hadn’t had one iota of attention to spare for their audience, his eyes always on Ichigo. It had made Ichigo feel like they were the only two people in the world, a feeling that would translate outstandingly well to the realm of the bedroom, if he was any judge. Those eyes of his were really something, too, the eyes of a predator who damn well knew he was at the top of the food chain, their color an electric blue that Ichigo had never seen before on either Earth or Soul Society. 

Ichigo sighed. It had been a long time since he’d had a crush like this, but interacting with Grimmjow was just so _exciting;_ a little like the early days of his rivalrous friendship with Renji, but with the intensity turned all the way up. And yeah, right now his physical desire was enhanced by his current bizarre state, but that spark, that charge, had already been there before he came down with this, so he knew it was genuine.

He knew his friends would think it was weird that he was so fixated on the guy. Especially since he was, you know, an alien. And yeah, it was a little weird that he had a whacking great hole right in his stomach and a mask-like ridge of bone along one side of his jaw, but eh, whatever. Ichigo could handle new and different. He knew his shipmates were seriously unnerved by the Arrancar’s more Hollow-like aspects, but Ichigo hadn’t grown up saturated in Shinigami culture and had hatred and fear of Hollows inculcated in him since before he could walk.

He’d fought them, sure, and he did hate them now that he’d seen comrades devoured by them, but _Arrancar weren’t Hollows._ His shipmates knew that, of course, but it didn’t stop their automatic response. The other Shinigami had grown up on Soul Society, where the mask and hole imagery was the best known representation of evil, so they recoiled from those sights on a subconscious level. 

It might even be deeper than that, actually—Shinigami had been defending themselves against Hollows since before either of the two species had been truly sentient. Soul Society was unique, as far as anyone knew, in that it had given rise to two sentient—now space-faring— species eternally locked into the twisted symbiosis of predator and prey. It was entirely possible that the fear was not just subconscious but truly instinctive, and in that case it was Ichigo’s mixed blood, not his Earth upbringing, that allowed him to interact more easily with the Arrancar.

So while the alien aspects of Grimmjow’s appearance unsettled Ichigo’s friends, all they did for Ichigo was turn him on a little bit. Ichigo was an adventurous guy; the idea of doing it with a dude from another planet was kind of intriguing. He wondered what it would be like to touch the inner surface of that hole—would it feel different from other skin? More than that, he wondered what Grimmjow would do. Was that something that his people liked, to be touched there? Maybe it was sensitive, like the inside of a wrist or the back of a knee. Maybe, like those areas, it was a good place to kiss. Maybe he could kiss and nip the edges of it while he jerked Grimmjow off, or play his fingers over it while he sucked his cock.

There was a loud beep from his communicator and Ichigo started, looking around guiltily.  His hand had somehow migrated to the front of his hakama while he wasn’t looking, and he hurriedly snatched it away. He took a deep breath and answered, “Kurosaki here.”

It was Hanataro’s nasal voice that greeted him, sounding even more tired than usual. “Kurosaki, we want to keep you apprised of our findings. In half an hour, we we’ll be briefing Captain Kuchiki on our preliminary findings. Would you like to attend that session or discuss it with us separately, afterwards?”

“B-Byakuya?” Ichigo spluttered. “What are you telling him for? Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Sorry, Kurosaki, but your condition and resulting absence from diplomatic functions may have ramifications for our mission here. As the commander of the Special Diplomatic Corps, he had to be told.” Hanataro said, his tone conveying sympathy but not apology.

“…Right,” Ichigo replied glumly. The Shinigami did not stick to confidentiality as strictly as humans, and it could be overridden by all kinds of concerns. He knew this, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. It sounded like Hanataro had already told him, so there nothing to be done for it. Accepting that he couldn’t change the circumstances, Ichigo said, “Uh, then I guess I’ll save you the trouble of repeating everything. I’ll come to the meeting.”

“Excellent! I’ll see you there. Oh, wait, can you come in fifteen minutes early, so we can do a quick exam and check your hormone levels again to see if anything has changed?” Hanataro asked. 

“Sure.”

“Good. Yamada out.”

Ichigo hoped the news was good news—Hanataro hadn’t sounded all that cheerful, but it was always hard to tell with that guy. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Byakuya being there—embarrassed, for sure, but also weirdly relieved to have someone so competent there calling the shots. Not that Unohana wasn’t competent, but Ichigo didn’t really know her at all. He trusted her in a vague sort of way, trusted her to be good at her job, but Byakuya was his commander, and Ichigo trusted him personally. 

The bad part about this meeting was that Ichigo suspected that he might be unable to hide his attraction to Byakuya. Now that he was thinking about him, Ichigo realized how hot he was. How had he never noticed this? Ichigo supposed that it was the cool, arrogant personality that turned him off in the past, but right now the idea of that commanding stare was kind of having the opposite effect. Byakuya had a hell of a presence; he radiated an “I’m in charge here” vibe better than anyone Ichigo had ever met. Actually, he had that in common with Grimmjow, although otherwise the two of them were different as night and day, otherwise. It seemed like Ichigo was majorly into it that quality right now.

And he was good looking, too; almost pretty, but too stern for the word to really apply. Though it was embarrassing to even think it, ‘beautiful’ would be a better fit—Byakuya nude would be a sight to behold, Ichigo was sure. He would look like some ancient Earth marble statue, pale and perfectly sculpted. He was as cool and implacable as stone, too, and Ichigo wasn’t sure whether the thought of him remaining that way as he reduced Ichigo to incoherence or the thought of him losing his cool and showing some of the passion that must lay underneath his facade was more exciting. In the former case, Ichigo would get to hear Byakuya’s sophisticated drawl giving him commands to strip or kneel or spread his legs, and in the latter, he’d get to hear that voice go rough and feel Byakuya manhandle him into whatever position he wanted. Either way would be so fucking hot…

Great, now he was hard again. He still had almost fifteen minutes; maybe he should jerk off beforehand? It might help him keep his composure for at least the beginning of the meeting. But he didn’t want to fuck up Hanataro’s exam, so probably it was better not to. He was worried that doing so would alter the levels of his various hormones and neurotransmitters, thereby clouding the data. 

Then again, it was what he'd been just about to do—the baseline state of his dick, since this whole thing began, was a little more than halfway to fully erect, but since spending some time thinking about Grimmjow and then Byakuya, he was as hard as a damn rock. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, plus it was uncomfortable. Oh man, he _so_ wanted to get off right now. It would feel so good, especially if he did it again like last night. Oh, yes, with his fingers inside him, pressing and rubbing just there while he imagined Byakuya giving it to him so fucking right…

But no. He really didn’t want to give Hanataro bad data and thereby make it take longer to figure this out. Part of him wanted to call Hanataro and ask him if his worries in this regard were well-founded, but he really didn’t want to make this any more awkward than it already was. He would try a different route to make himself a little more presentable.

Ichigo spent the next ten minutes thinking of the most un-erotic things he could imagine, trying to turn himself off—Kurotsuchi featured prominently. He thought of the smell of baby sharks pickled in formaldehyde, a post-traumatic stress memory from his high school biology class, and the threat of becoming a dissection subject himself. He remembered the grossest Hollows he could think of, and that unfortunate and also really freaking gross picture of a melty slice of pizza on the sign at the corner pizza shop. He remembered feeling wretchedly sick and cleaning up after his even sicker little sisters, when Yuzu had brought a stomach flu home from school and the whole house had got it. He’d been ten; it was the year after Mom died, and Dad just couldn’t deal with the three of them being sick all at once by himself, especially while he was sick, too.

All these disgusting and miserable thoughts did their job—Ichigo felt quite proud of himself for killing his hard-on almost completely. He carefully maintained the mental barrage of nastiness—he couldn’t keep this up for long, it was a lot of effort, and only a certain kind of thought or memory did the trick. He’d only encountered so many truly disgusting things in his life, and the imaginary ones were not quite as effective. Also, it was somewhat nauseating. 

Stepping the effort down a bit, he quickly checked his reflection in the mirror—his cheeks were flushed and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been rolling around in bed all day with some handsome… Or rather, as if he’d spent the morning fleeing from those rotten zombies from the movie. Reframing, that was the key. He tried to calm his hair a bit, but decided it was a lost cause. Byakuya could just deal with it.

Ichigo made his way to the infirmary, which didn’t take long because it was only two doors down. He was greeted by Hanataro, who said, “You’re looking a little better today, Kurosaki. Although your vitals say you’re worse… How do you feel?”

“No better, certainly. I only look, uh, decent because for the past ten minutes, I’ve been constantly pulling that teenager’s trick of thinking of the most repulsive things I can come up with. It’s very stressful and requires a lot of attention, but I can keep myself from getting turned on that way.” He really was pleased with himself for coming up with that idea. Man, that was sad.

Hanataro ‘hmm’-ed and said, “Let’s draw some blood.”

Ichigo sat down in the appropriate chair and proffered his arm. He noticed that this time, as Hanataro bent close to insert the needle, he felt no twinge of desire whatsoever. That was… interesting. Had he mentally classed Hanataro as a woman or something? That was rude of him, if he had, and uncharacteristic, he hoped—Ichigo wasn’t ordinarily the type to separate guys into “real men” and “basically women,” in fact he strongly disliked that people did such a thing. Maybe it was just that he couldn’t quite picture— _woah._

Byakuya Kuchiki walked into the room and Ichigo completely lost his train of thought and his grip on his suppression strategy. Fuck, Ichigo wanted him; wanted to get on his knees for him, wanted to strip and bend over that table, offering himself, presenting himself. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears, in his neck, in his cock; his breath coming fast and shallow as he stared and stared and stared. Those eyes, that walk, the way he commanded the room so effortlessly; the way his white haori fluttered around him—surely Ichigo’s service was only his superior officer’s due. Their eyes met, Byakuya’s widening in surprise at whatever he saw in Ichigo’s face, and he needed to be closer to him, needed to—

“Kurosaki! Are you okay? Ichigo!” Hanataro asked, looking back and forth between him and a nearby monitor, “Are you in pain?”

Ichigo froze, coming back to some semblance of awareness, Hanataro’s alarmed voice working like a pitcher of ice water poured over his head. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting for control as hard as he ever had in his life. “Yeah,” he replied thickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Are you in pain?” Hanataro repeated.

“No,” Ichigo replied. He didn’t think the fact that his whole body ached to have Captain Kuchiki’s hands on it counted. 

Hanataro took another vial of blood, then asked, “What happened?” 

Unohana stepped out of his peripheral vision and said, “You don’t have to answer, Ichigo. I understand what happened. It was him, wasn’t it?”

Ichigo nodded, not looking at anyone directly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Unohana shake her head, looking puzzled. “This is… why don’t you take a seat at the table, Ichigo.”

Ichigo stood and made his way over, eyes downcast, and sat, as far away from Captain Kuchiki as he could get. He couldn’t look at him; couldn’t face the possibility of rejection and repulsion on his face—surely someone so calm and controlled would be disgusted by Ichigo panting after him like a bitch in heat. Couldn’t look at him, because if he didn’t see that, if he saw even the faintest glimmer of desire or even sympathy, he’d be across the room and at Captain Kuchiki’s feet in a heartbeat, and some part of him knew he didn’t really want to do that.

“I will not bore you with the technical details, Expedition Commander, Kurosaki; instead, I’ll get straight to the results,” Unohana began, and Ichigo fixed his attention on her. “We have eliminated the possibility of drugs or infection, and we strongly suspect that what Ichigo is undergoing is a natural process related to the unknown portion of his genetic makeup.”

Ichigo’s jaw dropped. _What?_

“Epigenetic changes related to those parts of his genome indicate that he has experienced some stimulus since arriving here—since visiting Hueco Mundo—that has triggered the expression of previously unexpressed genes linked to what is presumably some kind of reproductive cycle. It is possible that this is a coincidence, but I think that the likeliest explanation is that we have stumbled upon the planet of origin of Ichigo’s maternal grandfather,” Unohana said.

She didn’t give him any time to digest this before she continued, “We need your permission, Expedition Commander, to contact the medical authorities on Hueco Mundo and find a sample to check Ichigo’s DNA against, as well as to ask about information regarding his condition.”

Ichigo just sat there, stunned, but Captain Kuchiki asked, “Can you tell how long this state will last?” 

Unohana shook her head. “We have not yet determined whether it will stop on its own or whether intervention will be required, of if so, what form that intervention will take.”

Captain Kuchiki’s tone was just the tiniest bit dry when he asked, “What form? Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

“No,” Unohana replied tartly. “We don’t know what specifically triggered this, so we don’t know how to stop it. If the intervention required is sexual intercourse, we do not know whether a Shinigami female would be close enough, or whether he would require contact with an Arrancar female.”

“But I don’t want women!” Ichigo blurted out before he could stop himself. He might feel embarrassed about it some other time, but he was sure he’d already passed the maximum threshold for that and was in a state of transcendent mortification.

Unohana turned to him and said, “It is unfortunate that your preferences do not match up with the situation, but it cannot be helped.”

“No, no!” Ichigo protested, immensely frustrated with the situation. Unohana had to be wrong; in light of the way his feelings had changed from last night to today, her theory that it was a reproductive cycle just didn’t make any sense. Ichigo was certain it wasn’t anything to do with his dream, now—if the idea was that he was afraid of having sex with a woman because they were, on the whole, more breakable, then he ought to just be attracted to strong women. And Ichigo knew he didn’t have a chance in hell of doing anything to Unohana she didn’t want him to, but she still held no interest for her. 

He had to make her understand this, no matter how much he didn’t want to get into the details. Ichigo took a deep breath and began, “Normally I like women just fine, I mean, I like both, but now I only want men… I don't understand how this could be a reproductive cycle—what I want, what I’ve been craving, specifically the one thing my body is telling me I need, it… that’s not something that would aid me in fathering children. It’s not even like I’ve got some wires crossed somewhere and I’m dying to try and get a guy pregnant. I’m telling you, it can’t be reproductive, it has to be something else.”

Unless… Total horror flooded his system. He looked around wildly, somehow hoping there would be a full-body scan of him on the wall somewhere. His voice came out high and squeaky when he asked, “How different is my physiology from a human or Shinigami?”

Unohana looked taken aback. “Not that different, if I understand your meaning. You are not capable of becoming pregnant.”

Ichigo deflated somewhat, overwhelmingly relieved. 

“Oh,” he said faintly. “That’s good.”

“He does have a point,” Captain Kuchiki said, and Ichigo was suddenly over the moon to have his approval, to hear it in that soft, sexy voice. “It does seem odd that a reproductive cycle would induce a specific desire for… non-reproductive sex. Could this be some kind of psychic manipulation?”

Ichigo hadn’t even thought of that. 

“No,” Unohana said, her voice reassuringly firm. “We checked for that; he’s clean.”

“Very well,” Captain Kuchiki said. “Is this condition life-threatening or likely to result in permanent injury?”

“No,” Unohana said again, but this time she sounded like she had some reservations. “Not yet. But it’s stressing his body considerably; if the symptoms continue to worsen, it could become life-threatening—stroke, heart attack, brain damage if the fever gets too high… Permanent damage from the hormonal overload will become a possibility, although we’re not there yet. Oh, and we’re administering a drug in just a moment to assure that his future sexual function is not damaged by maintaining an erection for such long periods of time.”

Oh, Ichigo thought, belated alarm competing with the cringe-factor of hearing Unohana specifically talking about his dick to Captain Kuchiki like he wasn’t even here. He’d heard that it was dangerous to be hard for too long, that if a guy took drugs for increased stamina it could hurt him somehow… He’d never taken drugs like that, so he never paid the warnings much mind. The more serious complications didn’t really seem real, but he was sure that for however much he wanted this to end, it wasn’t enough to buy that relief at the price of never having sex again. Oh, hell no.

Captain Kuchiki stood; apparently he’d heard enough. “Security concerns and concerns over the success of our mission prohibit me from allowing you to contact any medical authorities on the planet until all other avenues have been explored or Kurosaki’s condition becomes immediately life-threatening. You will continue your research and observe his condition for another twenty-four hours, then we will revisit the issue. Contact me if anything changes.”

With that, he turned and began to stride out. Ichigo held white-knuckle tight to his chair to avoid following him.

Hanataro, speaking for the first time since the exchange had begun, said, “Sir, wait! You’re a man; can’t you imagine how uncomfortable this must be for Kurosaki? It’s no good to leave him like this when we know what the next step is!”

Ichigo felt a surge of affection for the little doctor. Hanataro was a good guy, even if he’d started talking about Ichigo like he wasn’t there, too. 

Captain Kuchiki turned to look directly at him—at Ichigo!—and the weight of his gaze knocked all the air out of Ichigo’s lungs. “I’m sorry, Kurosaki,” he said gravely, “But I can’t jeopardize the mission for this.” 

“I understand, Captian Kuchiki,” Ichigo said meekly, eyes downcast, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

He glanced back up again just in time to see shock and something like dismay on Captain Kuchiki’s face, writ small in widening of his eyes and the minuscule lift of his eyebrows, the tiny downturn of his lips. He remembered, then, that he always tried to irritate the man by calling him by his given name. He’d always thought of him as Byakuya before, too. But now, though, he didn’t want to piss him off or challenge his authority. Instead, he wanted to… he didn’t know, roll around in it. He wanted to submit to that authority so, so much.

  Once Byakuya—and didn’t that seem appallingly disrespectful, now—had gone, Unohana handed him a small paper cup with some pills in it and a larger one full of water. She said, “Fever reducer, sedative, and that one I mentioned earlier, to prevent damage. Once you take them, you can go back to your room next door unless you have any more questions.” 

Ichigo knocked them back, shook his head no, and fled. As soon as he was out of the infirmary proper, all his worry over what was wrong with him, its origin and consequences, went right out of his head. He had to struggle not to run after Byakuya, and struggle hard. He needed him, needed someone with authority to tell him this was going to be okay, craved the reassurance that would come from Byakuya’s hands on him. Byakuya did not have a comforting personality, but just touching another person would make him feel so much better, and being able to lose himself in submission, in doing what Byakuya commanded him to, in Byakuya’s pleasure and his own… That sounded like the ultimate relief.

Keying open the door to the room, he hurried inside and closed the door behind him, untying the waistband of his shihakusho as he made his way to the couch. He kicked the hakama off and threw himself down on the couch, not even bothering with lube or anything as he took hold of his aching cock. He brought himself off in less than two minutes, nothing fancy, not even a fantasy to aid him. He couldn’t think of anything other than his pleasure and need, and he was coming before he even knew what was happening, his surprised shout echoing in his ears. 

He slumped back against the cushions, panting. After a moment, he realized that that had barely even taken the edge off. Sighing, he began to stroke himself more slowly, his toes curling at the hot, slick wetness as he coated his cock with his own come. That time was a bit less embarrassingly quick, but soon enough he was coming again, Captain Kuchiki’s name on his lips, his head thrown back and his back arched into a harsh bow. 

There was a blanket tucked over the back of the couch and he grabbed it, using a corner to wipe himself off and throwing it over himself. Now that his body’s most urgent demands had been met, he could feel the fever sapping his energy, making him tired and heavy. He fell asleep almost instantly.

He woke up several hours later and made himself drink a glass of water before crawling into bed, tired enough that he could fall asleep despite his restored erection. He hadn’t felt like this yesterday, like he was actually sick, but now he was achy and over-sensitive everywhere, exactly as he remembered from the last time he’d had the flu. 

Despite vague thoughts of Captain Kuchiki as he fell asleep, he dreamt of his other object of desire, Grimmjow. His mind constructed a vision of the Arrancar’s bedroom for him, a room he’d call minimalist, even spartan, in appearance, if not for the fact that it wasn’t very clean. The late afternoon sun was shining in the windows and there was had a wide, low bed, where the room’s owner lay naked, sprawled insouciantly on his back, grinning as Ichigo crawled on top of him. 

Their kiss was easy and languid, like they were lovers of long standing, and that made sense because in the dream, they were. They made love in Grimmjow’s bed, slow and hot and sticky-sweet, and it wasn’t like a movie but more like a series of stills and sensations; deep, melting kisses; their eyes locked together as Ichigo sank down on top of him; the humid air between their mouths as Ichigo stretched over Grimmjow to mingle their breath. The perfect anticipation as he forced himself to keep his pace slow; the breathless moment suspended at the peak before he came; the sound of Grimmjow’s moan as he spilled himself into Ichigo’s body; the feeling of his toes uncurling as he came down. 

Afterwards, they talked intermittently of inconsequential things, lazing around because they had nothing better to do. He felt like he didn’t have a care in the world, so cozy and cared for in this little bubble-world for just the two of them. Ichigo resisted waking up with everything he had; he knew that somewhere he was cold and hungry and he had to pee, but he didn’t care. He semi-woke several times, only to tuck the blankets more closely around himself or curl up on his side to conserve warmth and resist full wakefulness. Each time, he slipped back into the dream, into Grimmjow’s arms, and this was so much better than his other existence right now.

Eventually waking got the better of him, and though he curled up tighter and kept his eyes closed, he didn’t fall back asleep. This displeased him greatly and he made an unhappy little sound as he opened his eyes to look at the clock on the nightstand. It was half past two in the morning—late as hell, but still a long way ’til morning. Not that it really mattered.

He turned up the temperature control and took a shower to warm up, crawling back under the covers again immediately afterward. He didn’t sleep again, not really—which was unsurprising because he’d only actually been awake for half a day—but he imagined he was back in Grimmjow’s sunny bedroom and dozed, trying to recapture his earlier dream; trying to get it to play again from the beginning.

A long time passed like that, caught between sleep and waking; dream and daydream, sliding back and forth between the two but never all the way to one or the other. His experience was broken up by occasional bouts of pleasure that came either from his own hands or dream-Grimmjow’s or dream-Renji’s or dream-Byakuya’s, he wasn’t entirely sure. Several times he became aware that he should get up, that he was sticky with sweat and spit and come, but he wanted to go back to his dreams and that wouldn’t happen if he got up and did things. All that awaited him in the waking world was a cold and lonely dark room, but in his dreams he could feel warm skin and strong arms around him.

Ichigo shivered with fever and turned over, curling up tighter, desperately trying to get back to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week on El Juramento: 
> 
> Grimmjow, armed with some information unavailable to the Shinigami, begins to understand what is happening to Ichigo. The conclusion he draws is alarming--if he's right, those offworlders aren't going to have a clue what to do and Ichigo will be the one to pay the price for their ignorance. It's down to him to figure out a solution.
> 
> Fortunately, he has one in mind.


	4. El Juramento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo couldn't be going through an Arrancar right of passage because he wasn't an Arrancar. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some terms in, ahem, the Arrancar language (AKA Spanish) that go untranslated here. Don't bother looking them up unless you really want to--all will be revealed next chapter. 
> 
> Apologies if you actually speak Spanish and these words don't mean what I think they mean. Blame Google Translate.
> 
> ALSO: This story now has a prologue. In it, you will find some information about what Ichigo & co. are doing on Hueco Mundo, as well as some information about the Arrancar society, especially its military. You don't absolutely need to know this stuff, but it will help, especially with questions like "Why would any sensible armed forces put Grimmjow in charge?!?"

“Where’s Ichigo Kurosaki?” Grimmjow asked, feeling damn suspicious about his disappearance. “I ain’t seen him for three days.”

“Aboard ship. He is indisposed,” Kuchiki replied, giving nothing away as he looked up at Grimmjow from the chair behind his desk

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Grimmjow spat, starting to get annoyed. He’d seen Ichigo nearly every day since the Shinigami showed up, at least for a minute or two here and there. Then, three days ago, Ichigo had dropped off the face of the world and no one had seen fit to explain why. It wasn’t that he was worried, it was just that he’d been promised a real fight with Ichigo after their sparring match the other day, and he was getting antsy to get on with it.

“‘Indisposed’ means he is ill,” that smug, superior, stick-up-his-ass Commander oh-so-helpfully explained.

“I know what the fuckin’ word means, Kuchiki. I’m askin’ ya what’s wrong with him,” Grimmjow said, his tone flat because that was better than a snarl—he knew full well that he was more pissed about this than he could justify. He’d taken a liking to the orange-haired kid, that was all. 

“Do you give out confidential medical information to anyone who asks here on Hueco Mundo?” Kuchiki returned, and okay, that was fair. But…

“If he’s caught somethin’, he oughtta be down here in one of our hospitals. We got some weird shit here; yer doctors won’t know how ta deal with it,” Grimmjow responded, quite sensibly if he did say so himself.

“We’ve ruled out the possibility of infectious disease,” Kuchiki said, and that was good, at least. Who knew what some kind of Hueco Mundo illness would do to one of this lot that picked it up. They were biologically close enough that it was possible, but different enough that the results would be unpredictable.

Wait. “‘Ruled out the possibility?’ That means ya don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

“I can’t tell you that,” Kuchiki said, but the slight widening of his eyes told Grimmjow that he’d realized that he made a mistake in his phrasing. Gotcha, asshole.

“Well, I’ll come up an’ see him, then,” Grimmjow tried. Okay, he was getting kind of worried, now. Just a little bit.

“Impossible,” Kuchiki replied. “Our CMO says no visitors.”

Grimmjow didn’t like that. If it wasn’t anything infectious, then why the restriction? Maybe Kuchiki was lying.

“Then how ‘bout we send somebody from our hospital up there? They can talk ta yer _médicos_ , maybe help out,” Grimmjow offered. Getting some trustworthy eyes up there might actually be better than going himself, since a doctor would know what was going on better than he would.

“I assure you, our own physicians are more than qualified. I’m sure Kurosaki will be able to see you soon, if he so wishes,” Kuchiki said, closing the discussion.

Grimmjow was downright pissed at being stonewalled, but he’d done enough of this diplomatic shit in his life to know that there was nothing he could do. Ichigo had better not be so sick that they couldn’t have their rematch before the Shinigami left.

“Alright, alright, whatever,” Grimmjow said, giving in. “Well, tell ‘im I said ta get back on his feet so he can fight me for real.”

…

That errand completed, albeit unsatisfactorily, Grimmjow continued with his lunch break, now in pursuit of actual lunch. What the fuck was wrong with Ichigo, he wondered as he headed down the street, away from the temporary Shinigami consulate and towards his favorite cafe. 

It wasn’t any kind of bug, or so Kuchiki had said, but apparently it wasn’t some normal Shinigami thing, either, if they couldn’t figure it out. Ichigo had said he was of mixed heritage—Shinigami and, what did you call it, Human—though, so maybe that was making it confusing for them. Either that or Kuchiki was lying about him picking up something here.

He’d better not be, Grimmjow thought darkly. Ichigo was the most interesting of these visitors by far and Grimmjow would be majorly pissed if something happened to him. He seemed less alien, somehow; less devoted to order and boring formal stuff than his fellows. There was also the fact that while  the rest of the visitors struggled to hide their fear and distaste for the Arrancar, Ichigo apparently just didn’t give a fuck.

Had Ichigo seemed sick, the last time he’d seen him? That had been at the last fancy party in the seemingly interminable series of fancy parties the Shinigami had thrown in an attempt to woo the high-ranking Arrancar. They’d hardly interacted—Ichigo had been expending considerable effort trying to win over the undecideds. Despite the circumstances, Grimmjow had to repress a snicker—he could just picture Ichigo being all earnest at that emotionless bat Ulquiorra, to no avail. What an impossible task.

When he and Ichigo had briefly spoken, he had seemed somewhat preoccupied, but at the time Grimmjow had just put it down to the fact that he was keeping company with the World’s Biggest Downer, Mr. Delusions of Grandeur, and the Colonial Control Freak for the evening. 

He hadn’t analyzed it too much because he had been preoccupied that night as well. Every once in a while, he thought he caught a hint of an out-of-place scent on the air, the sweet pheromone musk of _el juramento—_ and for someone like him, there were few scents more distracting.

It made no sense, though, since there were no Arrancar men anywhere near young enough there—at such a high-powered gathering, even the waiters were the senior members of their profession. And it was just odd, to catch such a scent at random—anyone with any sense wouldn’t be out and about at such a time. It’s just not done, for one thing, and it’s not safe, for another. 

He’d seen nothing else to do but dismiss it, guessing that maybe a chance combination of scents had mimicked that one, or perhaps it was a deliberate emulation in the shape of a very risqué perfume. He shook his head, frustrated—he’d been too distracted by both the scent itself and the mystery of its origin at the time to recall much about Ichigo.

Grimmjow stopped abruptly, struck by the juxtaposition of ideas. Ichigo; that scent… It was a strange coincidence, that Ichigo had become ‘indisposed’ just when such a man, if he had existed, would have started showing signs in earnest. Mixed heritage; Ichigo said he had mixed heritage, Grimmjow thought with growing alarm. But surely he would have said if part of that mixture was Arrancar, wouldn’t he? Unless he’d been ordered to keep it secret for some reason…

Grimmjow immediately turned around and headed for the Office of Interstellar Travel. Lunch could wait—he had to find out if any of his people had been on Earth when Ichigo was conceived. Except he didn’t have any idea when to start—he didn’t know how old Ichigo was. _El juramento_ usually hit around seventeen or eighteen, but it could be delayed if the circumstances weren’t right, and with someone who wasn’t a full Arrancar, who knew what would happen.

Ichigo was young for his position, Grimmjow did know that, apparently considered as something of a prodigy, but that wasn’t nearly enough information to be any real use… Fuck this, there was no way to figure it out. Shinigami, Arrancar, and Humans all had very different lifespans and patterns of aging, and if Ichigo really was a mix of all three or even just the two, there was no guessing his age from his appearance. 

Or wait, didn’t necessarily have to be talking about one of Ichigo’s parents being an Arrancar, anyway; they could be talking about his grandparents, or maybe even the great-grandparents. Would the disposition for _el juramento_ breed true, if Arrancar blood was that diluted? He had no idea. No other species that they associated with—other than the Hollows, on occasion, and nobody wanted to have sex with one of those—was biologically close enough for interbreeding, so it wasn’t like he had any other half-breeds to compare with.

Agh, how was he going to figure out when to look? The idea that Ichigo could be undergoing _el juramento_ right now was messing up his thought processes. If that that scent had come from his fair, soft-looking skin… No, he needed to think, to seriously apply his brain and think this through. Okay, so, what did he know about Ichigo’s background?

Next-to-nothing, other than the fact that he’d been raised on Earth but gone to Soul Society as a youth. So, if he had gone there and been accepted, it was reasonable to assume that at least one of his parents was Shinigami. The other could have been either an Arrancar or a mix of Arrancar and human, or possibly the Shinigami ancestor was the mixed one.

What was he going to do? Those outlanders wouldn’t know what to do about _el juramento;_ they wouldn’t even know what it was, and he didn’t know if they could figure it out with the limited information they had. Their impulse would be to try to treat the symptoms with drugs, an endeavor that had never succeeded on Hueco Mundo despite centuries of effort. Ichigo would suffer for their ignorance—was already suffering for it, if he was thee days in and had no idea what the hell was happening to him—when he ought to have his commanding officer there to see him through and accept his oath of loyalty. 

Ugh, his direct superior was Kuchiki—that was unacceptable. Besides, the trigger to end it, like the one that kicked it off, was pheromonal; likely a Shinigami wouldn’t do. But then, if he explained what _el juramento_ actually was, Kuchiki would fight tooth and nail against Ichigo binding himself to an Arrancar, even if that binding didn’t hold much actual force. Ichigo himself would likely be too out of it to be much help, or even to properly consent. If he was right, this was going to be a diplomatic nightmare and a nightmare for Ichigo while they worked it out.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He had no idea if this was even possible; he’d never heard of any of his people going out that way, either to Earth or to Soul Society. There was certainly no guarantee he’d have heard of any such thing, though, especially if it had happened before his elevation to Sexta Espada.

So the question was when and where he should start looking. From what he knew of the two worlds at hand, a lost (fugitive? Grimmjow couldn’t think of any other reason to run that far) Arrancar would have a better chance at fitting in on Earth. Their society wasn’t as regimented, and their population was way higher. Plus there would be fewer people around who could sense the difference between the newcomer’s reiatsu and a normal Shinigami’s.

So Earth it was, at least to start with. He didn’t think a parent was likely—it seemed unlikely that the Shinigami military would let some kid with that big of a question mark in his history into their ranks. And a great-grandparent didn’t seem like they would provide enough Arrancar blood for Ichigo to have inherited the disposition for _el juramento_ —although he had no real basis for that assumption, admittedly.

So one of Ichigo’s grandparents was the most likely suspect. Okay, but that was still a big time span considering he had no idea how old Ichigo was or how old his parents had been when they had him. Fortunately, as an Espada, he could requisition any records he wanted. It might take some time, but he could figure it out.

He walked into Department of Interstellar Travel’s front office, scaring the hell out of their receptionist in the process. She was technically one of his underlings, as the Department of Interstellar Travel fell under the aegis of the Interstellar Defense and Exploration Fleet, which in turn fell under the massive umbrella of Defense and was thereby his a part of his bailiwick. Her alarm was understandable and somewhat adorable.

“Hello, welcome to…Sir!” she cried, her introductory spiel cut short when she recognized him. She stood, bowing deeply. “Good afternoon, Sexta Espada. How may I be of assistance?”

“I need ta know about any visitors goin’ to a planet called Earth—yeah, it’s a real original name, I know—between forty-five and mmm… let’s say two hundred years ago, our dating system,” he told her. It was, after all, possible that Ichigo aged like a Shinigami and was much older than he looked. Hopefully the long timespan didn’t mean there would be a million records to sort through.

“Very good, sir. I can do that, sir. Records from that period indicate… only one match. Oh, wow; it’s asking me for special clearance. If you could scan and sign, please, sir?” She held out an touchpad that he waved his ID at, then trailed a finger over it in his entirely illegible signature. It beeped happily. One match, huh? Well, at least this would be quick.

“Thank you,” the receptionist said perkily. “Now then, the only visitor to Earth during the specified time period was a refugee from the establishment of the current governmental order, one of the last hold-outs from the previous power structure. One hundred and fifty-two years ago, Lord Emilio Tu Oderschank, commonly called—

“The Last of the Vastro Lordes?” Grimmjow interrupted, shocked and fascinated. “I had no idea he ended up there. The stories say he died at the siege of his fortress.”

“According to this data, that is false, though a popular tale nonetheless. He and his family were given the choice to submit or flee by the Espada of the time because the then-Primera so admired Oderscahnk’s abilities as a military leader. However, the Señora Tu Oderschank chose to submit and stay, so as not to raise the infant Señorita in a strange land. 

“Lord Tu Oderschank left with only his lieutenant—a _brazo derecho_ —and they both lived out the rest of their days in obscurity on the planet Earth. We received a communique from that _brazo derecho_ forty years ago, informing us of Tu Oderschank’s unexpected death and his own intent to commit suicide, as was considered proper in the old days.”

Grimmjow whistled. No wonder that wasn’t public knowledge. Señora Tu Oderschank must have put the alternate version about to protect her daughter Neliel, now the top aide to the Tres and considered likely to succeed her. It wasn’t exactly cowardice, but any courageous option other than suicide had passed when the Espada had failed to kill him. It was pretty scandalous—the fact that he’d run off with his _brazo derecho_ only made it look worse. 

“D’ya know if he or his man fathered any kids while they were on Earth?” Grimmjow asked. Could he really have been right? Could Oderschank really be Ichigo’s grandfather?

“No; that’s unknown,” the girl replied.

“Thanks; ya helped me out a lot today, Señorita,” he said, giving her a grin to cover his disappointment at the lack of answer. She blushed prettily at the praise from such a high-ranking official. 

He started to turn away, but then said, “Wait, one more thing. D’ya know where he lived? The city or even the country?”

She consulted he screen and said, “Karakura Town, in a country called Japan. It has a relatively high concentration of expatriate Shinigami, and apparently he passed as one.”

Karakura, huh? That name rang a bell; something Ichigo had said. The recollection came to him with an image of Ichigo sitting beside him on a bench outside, his hair still damp from the shower after their sparring session last week, holding a bottle of water and looking relaxed and happy. Ichigo had remarked that he always appreciated the chance to open up a little with his powers because he always had to keep them locked down tight as a kid, that while his friends could roughhouse to their hearts’ content, he always had to be careful. Grimmjow thought that sounded awful, to grow up among people with no spiritual powers, and had said as much.

“Nah, it wasn’t so bad,” Ichigo had replied, “In Karakura Town there were a lot of _futatsu-futatsu;_ half-and-halfs, so wasn’t _so_ weird. Most weren’t able to fully call up their zanpakuto, though, or even take on a reishi-only form. I guess having a little, long-ago dash of Shinigami blood on my mom’s side, too, made all the difference. Or maybe it was ‘cause my dad used to be a captain; most of the other kids’ Shinigami parents were academy drop-outs.”

Yeah, Grimmjow thought, or maybe it was because you weren’t a half-and-half at all. Maybe you’re not even a quarter human, Ichigo. He’d forgotten about that part of what Ichigo had said; now he knew that if his suspicions were correct, Oderschank would have had a daughter by a part-Shinigami Human woman, who had in turn fallen for a Shinigami captain and become Ichigo’s mother. 

That was really a damn impressive pedigree. Lord Tu Oderschank was a remarkable historical figure; a genius tactician and one of the very, very few—one or two per generation, if any—Arrancar with a second-level Zanpakuto release. And Ichigo’s dad was a Shinigami captain, which he’d learned was the top tier of their fighting force—there were only thirteen of them, and they were the thirteen strongest people on the entire planet of Soul Society at any given time. 

When they’d fought, Ichigo had said that he couldn’t go all-out for fear of wrecking the gym. Grimmjow had suspected him of exaggerating at the time, but now he thought that he believed him. He wondered if in fact it hadn’t been the whole block that would have been endangered, if he really was Tu Oderschank’s grandson.

Oh _man_ , did he ever want to take Ichigo out to the desert where they couldn’t do any harm and see what that kid could really do. He’d heard the rumor that Ichigo had the ability to do a Bankai; like that, he would be able to withstand it, at least for a time, if Grimmjow let Pantera off his leash. The promise of being able to go all-out for the first time in a long time was enough to make him practically quiver with anticipation.

But he was getting ahead of himself again. First, he needed to confirm his theory, although it would be a damn big coincidence if he was wrong. Then, he needed to explain to Kuchiki and the Shinigami _médicos_ what was happening to Ichigo. After that, he’d have to negotiate for an Arrancar to see Ichigo through this. He should probably present a selection of candidates for the Shingami to choose from on Ichigo’s behalf, or for Ichigo himself to choose from if he was lucid enough. 

Normally, Ichigo would have previously agreed to his commanding officer taking part if he was in the military, or if he wasn’t, he would have chosen an older friend or mentor to stand in. He probably ought to pick some military guys that were just above the equivalent to Ichigo’s rank? Not that he knew what that even was, but he could find out. He’d never heard of a situation like this happening. He was sure there were legal precedents for what to do if there was no prior agreement, but he didn’t know what they were or how relevant the Shinigami would find them.

Who could Grimmjow trust to treat Ichigo well, both in this time of vulnerability and after, if he decided to stick around for a while?

According to the ancient military tradition, accepting a subordinate’s _juramento_ was almost like a sacred trust, and outside of the military it was a great honor to be chosen by a student or friend, but Ichigo wasn’t any Arrancar’s subordinate and he had no friends here. As a people, the Arrancar weren’t terribly xenophobic, but he still had some concerns about what officer would completely accept the oath from a man who wasn’t one of them. 

And who… who could he nominate to be the one to put his hands on Ichigo’s lithe body? To kiss his soft lips that must be red and swollen from being bitten right now? To enter and claim him; to accept his oath of loyalty and be accepted by his body?

Realization hit him like a slap to the face. There was no way he was going to allow anybody but himself that privilege. No way; absolutely fucking not. Just let Nnoitra or some arrogant young up-and-comer try it; he’d make sure that they could never play the part of _fideicomissario_ again. Some part of him had accepted Ichigo as his, as his man, his subordinate, the same way as if Ichigo had been some fresh-faced, green brat newly assigned assigned to Grimmjow’s squad back when he was just a sergeant. Grimmjow protected his own—be it from the enemy or from the greedy hands of interlopers. 

He knew it wasn’t his right to be Ichigo’s _fideicomissario_ ; that Ichigo was in no way whatsoever his subordinate. His reaction was instinct superimposing itself over a modern situation where it didn’t apply, but knowing that didn’t make the feeling go away. 

He genuinely liked the young envoy; before this, he’d hoped that perhaps they could become friends or maybe even lovers, if Ichigo ended up being posted to the embassy Soul Society was planning to open. He knew that this turn of events might have destroyed that faint possibility; assuming Grimmjow could convince the Shinigami to let him be a _fideicomissario_ this one last time, there was the possibility that Ichigo, once he had recovered, might think of this as a violation and hate him for it. Even if he didn’t, he might find the unequal footing that _el juramento_ created so distasteful that he couldn’t bear to continue any kind of relationship.

Even so, Grimmjow couldn’t bear the thought of letting someone else see Ichigo like this; touch him like this; couldn’t bear for Ichigo to become someone else’s. If Ichigo didn’t reject him, Grimmjow would gladly take him on as a sworn man, chain of command be damned. Or something; this wasn’t the old days where the bond of _el juramento_ was respected absolutely. They could work it out. 

There he went, getting ahead of himself again. The odds were in his favor after confirming Oderschank had ended up in Ichigo’s hometown, but be could still be mistaken. Seriously, he was going to feel like such an asshole if he was wrong about this. 

Okay, time for action. Talk to the Primera first, or go back to Kuchiki? Kuchiki, he decided, and he’d ask to speak to the _médico_ in charge of Ichigo’s case. If he really had it right, then he’d go to the Primera, and they’d all have to have a big meeting. He could bring in some guys from the university to explain about the nature and history of _el juramento_ to the Shinigami more articulately than he ever could. 

He made his way back to the temporary consulate where Kuchiki spent his days, trying not to imagine how Ichigo was doing right now; especially not what he might look like. This was too serious of a thing to let his own desire affect his decisions, but he couldn’t say he hadn’t noticed how attractive Ichigo was. Imagining him lying in bed somewhere up on that ship, likely naked, flushed and panting and desperately aroused, the hair at his temples damp with sweat, eyes filling with tears of frustration as he jerked himself off for the umpteenth time… 

Oh, that was not conducive to clear thought at all. That wasn’t even conducive to maintaining basic decorum while walking down the street. Not that he really cared about decorum, but still. 

 _El juramento_ was a serious matter, but it was also a major focus of the very concept of the erotic among his people, the subject of thousands of novels and stage or film dramas, plus thousands more works of a less highbrow nature. One of Grimmjow’s personal favorite dirty movies was based around it, in fact. It was so… pure, somehow; so raw. Nobody could hang on to their hang-ups in the face of biologically hardwired need, nor could they in the face of such an uninhibited partner soaked in that unbearably arousing scent. 

Oh, Ichigo, he thought, just wait a little longer.

It actually gave him pause, how much he wanted Ichigo—their collective cultural sense of the erotic aside, it wasn’t really right for the _fideicomissario_ to lust after his _empujador_ too much. Things like looks and the kind of chemistry he had with Ichigo were not really what _el juramento_ was supposed to be about. 

  In and of itself, the presence of pre-existing desire wasn’t so bad, but it was somewhat frowned upon because it smacked of the _fideicomissario_ neglecting to focus on his _empujador_ properly because he was too busy slaking his own lust. That was unacceptable and a breach of the bond of trust that was meant to connect them. 

However, Grimmjow was certain that he had the right feelings as well as the wrong ones.  What would be really bad was if he didn’t care at all; if he didn’t feel like Ichigo was his—not in the sense of an object, but in the sense of a person who would become an important and trusted subordinate. Treating another’s _juramento_ simply as an opportunity to get off was universally condemned by Arrancar society because it was so easy to take advantage in such a vulnerable time. It was meant to be a taking-care-of; a seeing-him-through—it wasn’t about the _fideicomissario’s_ desire, it was about the _empujador’s_ needs.

So maybe it would be better if he hadn’t already been lusting after Ichigo since well before this began, but he had and he couldn’t change that. He didn’t think that it would interfere with his duty as fideicomissario. He’d have his fun, but he’d take damn good care of Ichigo. That would be his number one priority, and he was going to get it so right that Ichigo would remember how good Grimmjow made him feel for the rest of his life.

Now he just had to convince everyone else to let him make it happen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're frustrated and confused because you only sort of understand what's happening, don't worry! That's my plan to encourage you to come back for...
> 
> Next week on El Juramento: A meeting is held by the Arrancar to explain what is going on with Ichigo to the Shinigami (and you, reader!) and propose a solution. Meanwhile, Rukia gets a call from a distressed Renji regarding an unexpected visitor in his office who is behaving very strangely.


	5. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arrancar and Shinigami come together to discuss what's happening to Ichigo and what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update is late this week! The chapter ended up growing a bit in revision, so you get a double update this time~

The meeting took place in the one of the Primera’s conference rooms. In attendance from the Soul Society delegation were that stone-faced asshole Kuchiki; their chief _médico_ , an inexplicably frightening woman called Retsu Unohana; her tall and rather attractive 2IC, Isane Kotetsu; another of her team, a timid little guy called Hanataro Yamada; and their stern-looking, somewhat librarianish lawyer, Nanao Ise. The Primera headed up the Hueco Mundo portion of the table, also consisting of Grimmjow, Hallibel, and a couple of boffins from the _Universidad_ , biologist and _médico_ Dr. Daniela Karanamo and historian Dr. Mick Reyasa. 

It had a day and a half to get this together, despite Grimmjow pushing as hard as he could once he’d confirmed what was going on. That had raised a few eyebrows—this was so far out of his usual area that it wasn’t even funny. Pretty much everyone he’d called in a favor from immediately assumed he had ulterior motives of some kind—which, of course, he did. At any rate, hopefully now they’d get a quick resolution once Kuchiki and Unohana understood the seriousness of the situation.

Starrk stood, announcing the beginning of the proceedings. “So, everyone. Thanks for coming. I know this is unusual, but this is an unusual situation. The best way to do stuff like this, I think, is to let the experts do the talking, so I’ll turn the floor over to Dr. Reyasa to give you the basics, then you guys can ask him some questions. After that, we can have a more scientific explanation from Dr. Karanamo. Sound good?”

There were a few nods and murmurs of agreement from around the table. Grimmjow thought that the Primera couldn’t sound official to save his life, but then again, neither could he. He had people to write every damn speech he ever gave, and he always thought he sounded like an asshole anyway.

“Good,” Starrk said. “Mick?”

“Thank you, Primera. Good afternoon, Espada, Commander, Doctors, Señora,” Reyasa began, nodding at each of them in turn. He was a strong-looking guy, for an academic, sturdy with dark skin and fair hair, his _mascarita_ forming a “T” over his brow and the bridge of his nose.

Reyasa continued, “As you all know, the Arrancar are not a natural race. We are a modified combination of Soul Society’s two intelligent species, created by the the Would-be God, Sosuke Aizen. His goal was to create a new and superior life form, with the secondary goal of creating an army of super-soldiers to return and conquer Soul Society. The Arrancar were created as a caste society, with the military caste accounting for a disproportionately high percentage of our population, a social arrangement that has only changed in the past two centuries, especially the latter of the two.

“Though our social arrangements have changed, the fact that caste features are biologically inbuilt has not. The phenomenon of _el juramento,_ which in your language would be called ‘the oath,’ is unique to the military caste, as it was only needed among soldiers. 

“Among his many other bad qualities, our Mad Creator was a sexist, so he didn’t create female soldiers, only females to be mothers of soldiers, so _el juramento_ is also unique to males. The goal of introducing this trait was to biologically reinforce the kind of features that make a group of men an effective and cohesive fighting force—duty, loyalty, trust, and hierarchy. That is the function of _el juramento_.

“Studying pack behaviors in non-sapient animals as well as male-only groups of Shinigami such as prison inmates, the Mad Creator found that penetrative sexual intercourse between males was often used to reinforce relationships of dominance and submission. And so, he sought a way to necessitate such intercourse between soldiers and their superiors.

“This reinforcement effect, Aizen found, was especially effective when the submission was willingly given—even Aizen knew that rule by love is more effective than rule by fear. We can argue philosophy as to whether an intrinsic compulsion to willingness is true willingness, but for the Mad Creator’s purposes, it was good enough. When young soldier undergoes _el juramento_ , he offers up his body and thereby his submission, and when the offer is accepted by his superior, this consummation reinforces the hierarchical nature of their relationship.”

Grimmjow heard some mutters of displeasure from the Soul Society part of the room, and he saw Kotetsu and Ise exchanged disgusted looks. He supposed it did seem odd.

“Excuse me, Dr. Reyasa, I’d like to add something here,” Hallibel cut in. He didn’t think she’d been planning to say anything; he thought she was just here because she’d been the one he’d called to bring in the experts, as the Universidad was part of her Education Division.

“Of course,” Reyasa said, though he looked a bit nonplussed.

“I wish to assure you that the whole of Arrancar society does not unquestioningly accept Aizen’s equation of penetration with subjugation. From your expressions, Shinigami women, I can tell you understand what it would mean if we did: deep-seated and ubiquitous sexism. Dr. Reyasa is explaining Aizen’s reasoning, and he is right to do so to further your understanding of _el juramento._ However, it also should be pointed out that reasoning has been very much called into question within the _Universidad_ system today.

“The predominant mode of thought today is that Aizen’s model of the relationship between sexual intercourse and hierarchy only works if it is supported by what you might call the hegemonic ideology. That is, if people think—consciously or not—that allowing oneself to be penetrated makes one subordinate, then it is effectively so. However, where Aizen went wrong was believing that this relationship was natural in origin and not social—not that the line is always so clear, of course, especially with us.

“Right now, in the popular consciousness, we have a sort of odd double standard—being penetrated does not make a women subordinate, but it does make a man subordinate, at least to a degree. Ultimately, I think this is something that we should work to change, but due largely to _el juramento_ , it is deeply entrenched in the collective mind. I could talk to you all day about why this is so and what it means for sex and gender in our culture, but I will refrain. I simply wanted to assure you that things are not so terrible for Arrancar women as they might seem, judging from a historical analysis of the hierarchical aspect of _el juramento_.”

“Uh, right,” Reyasa said, blinking in bemusement. “Thank you, Espada Hallibel—or should I say, Dr. Hallibel.”

Grimmjow bit down on his bottom lip to smother a grin. He’d all but forgotten that Hallibel was such a dedicated feminist. Good on her, for butting in. He hadn’t even seen the problem until she’d pointed it out, but Ise and Kotetsu obviously had—if the one getting fucked is the subordinate one, then women are always the subordinate ones compared to men, and nobody wants that. Except the, whaddayacallit, patriarchy, but fuck them anyway. Grimmjow’s metric was strength—and he’d had his ass kicked by women enough times in his life to to know that they weren’t lacking anything.

He’d have to file this one away to think about sometime—he didn’t like the idea that by buying into the whole idea of el juramento, he sided with those kind of assholes who thought women ought to be subordinate to men. Maybe there was something kind of fucked up about it, after all—it wouldn’t be surprising, since the Would-be God was a such a piece of work. If Hallibel was right, he’d taken something that was a social construct to start with and made it natural, or as natural as it got for them. But still, the bare biology was just biology; it didn’t have any real meaning on its own… What the fuck, this made his head hurt. He’d leave it to the ladies in the _Universidad_ to figure out. 

“So, anyway,” Reyasa said awkwardly, looking down at his notes again, _“El juramento_ is a state of heightened physical and emotional vulnerability on the part of the _empujador_ —the trustor; the one who undergoes the physical changes you see in your Ichigo Kurosaki.

“As such, when it is over, it makes that individual understand that their superior, the _fideicomissario_ or trustee, has had every opportunity to do them harm or take advantage, but instead acted only to see them through the process. Thus, trust, and from gratitude, loyalty.

“Also, _el juramento_ produces psychological effects in the _fideicomissario_ as well. The superior sees his man in a weakened and dependent state—due to the fever and muscle weakness, I mean, as well as the emotional upheaval of having one’s brain chemistry so out of whack. This enhances feelings of protectiveness and possessiveness in the superior officer. 

“Also, Aizen understood that due to the evolutionary role of the male as provider for the child-bearing female, males tend to feel a sense of obligation to those that they have taken as mates; i.e. engaged in sexual intercourse with,” Reyasa said, then paused for a moment and added, “Then again, this may be an entirely social phenomenon as opposed to a natural one, but the Mad Creator thought it was an evolutionary thing.”

  With a nervous glance at Hallibel, he continued, “So, they feel a sense of duty and responsibility to the empujador, who, once the process is over, becomes what we call their sworn man, a subordinate who moves with them through the ranks as long as they are capable.

“So now you can see why we call it the oath. The _empujador_ places himself in trust to the _fideicomissario_ , thereby offering up his loyalty, trust, and submission. In return, the _fideicomissario_ , by his actions, promises not to exploit or harm his subordinate; to protect him and do his duty by him. The only biological compulsion—or rather, the only biological compulsion that Aizen specifically engineered—is the impetus for the coupling itself—that’s the whole point of _el juramento_ , that it takes advantage of existing evolutionary-psychological tendencies. Or, that is what Aizen hoped it would do, anyway.

“I’ve talked a lot about what el juramento was designed to be, so let me conclude with a few words about the place of el juramento in our society today. We Arrancar are no longer a caste society, and we are also substantially demilitarized compared to previous eras. The sexes are fully equal under the law today, as well. Therefore, it is no longer the case that all members of the military undergo _el juramento_ , nor is it the case that all who undergo it are members of the military. Traditions remain much as they always have within the military, excepting situations involving a female superior officer who cannot act as _fideicomissario_. In the case, they normally go ‘up the chain’, as they say, until they find a man or sometimes move personnel around.

“In the rest of society, _el juramento_ has come to be something highly prized. It is considered to be a symbol of our heritage and our past, and often those young men who are not genetically primed to undergo it often induce a similar phenomenon with drugs, but it is widely held that the true _juramento_ is more valuable, as it is more of a transcendent experience. Also, in civilian society, to be selected as _fideicomissario_ is a great honor; the highest possible esteem a young man can show for a mentor, friend, or workplace superior. 

“In both the military and elsewhere, the task of the _fideicomissario_ is considered to be something very like a sacred trust. Taking advantage or harming someone who is in the throes of _el juramento_ is a very severe offense, one of the worst, as is betrayal of a sworn man. Betrayal _by_ a sworn man is also very scandalous and the subject of great disapprobation, but betrayal of the man who was once one’s _empujador_ is regarded as completely unforgivable, oath-breaking in the highest degree,” Reyasa concluded.

It was a good explanation, Grimmjow thought.

He’d actually never quite had it spelled out like that to him before, but it all made sense, at least from Aizen’s point of view. He thought Hallibel’s point had called into question whether it _really_ made sense, but at least he understood now what the point of it was supposed to be; why the Mad Creator had given them the trait.  He’d never thought about it much before this—e _l juramento_ was simply a rite of passage in military families; you were a kid before it and a soldier afterwards. 

It was almost like you stepped away from your parents and took on a new family, with the squad sergeant or petty officer at its head and your squadmates or fellow sailors for brothers. Now that he got to thinking about it—thanks, Hallibel—it was kind of similar to how marriage used to be for women, back in the old days. Not exactly, but enough to make the parallels striking. 

The last time Grimmjow had cried was at old Sergeant Tenka’s funeral—Tenka hadn’t been a sergeant by then, of course, he’d moved up plenty—but that was how Grimmjow always thought of him. He didn’t know how much was biological and how much was social, but the bonds forged from _el juramento_ could and did last a lifetime. They weren’t as strict or binding as a marriage vow, which in a way made them more enduring. Not that it was the same kind of thing at all, but now he’d thought of the analogy, he couldn’t shake it.

He had sworn men of his own, of course, and he kept in touch with them, but none of them had been as ambitious or—he hated to say it, but it was true—talented as he. They’d accompanied him on his rise to up to a point, but then he’d started losing them one by one as they failed to qualify for the positions he wanted them in. Shawlong, Edrad, Nakeem, Ylfort, and the inept but likable D Roy…

He’d been so pissed when he realized the dilemma he was in; angrier than he’d been since just after his mother was killed. He’d hated the thought of leaving them behind. Everything in him rejected it. He’d have died for any one of them, and he still would—how could he leave them behind? But he’d been so determined to become Sexta; he’d needed to be the strongest. If he was an Espada, he’d thought, nobody could push him around or hurt someone he loved. He’d finally, _finally_ be an equal to the man he hated most, the then-Quinto, Erinak Jaegerjaques. He’d known he could make it, but he’d almost given up his dream for his sworn men, to stay with them.

They hadn’t let him. They’d insisted he continue on and promised to be his eyes and ears in the lower ranks, assuring him that it was what they wanted. It had been like giving up a piece of himself; he swore the hole in his belly had only been half the size it was now before he made that decision.

Grimmjow blew out a breath, exasperated with himself. He’d totally tuned out the conversation while he’d been reminiscing—that was unlike him; he was hardly a big one for sentimentality. Ah, but those guys… He’d make a point of seeing each of them in person, sometime soon.

Ise was speaking when he turned back to the conversation. 

“—binding is this bond of _el juramento_ , outside of the military? Because I’m telling you right now, Kurosaki is not joining your Special Combat division. He’s a Shinigami asset and we absolutely won’t give him up.”

Hoo boy, she sounded real serious about that. It wasn’t just a general thing, refusing to hand over one of their own, either—he could tell from Ise’s tone that Ichigo was considered a major combat asset. Mad Creator, did Grimmjow ever want to fight him. As soon as Ichigo was back to normal, that shit was _on_.

“It has no legal binding status in the outside of the military legal code,” Reyasa assured her. “And it really varies from case to case—sometimes, the two parties remain close. Some young professors of military caste extraction that I have spoken with still work closely with their former fideicomissarios, but some do not. There is no social sanction either way.”

“Kurosaki would be neither required nor expected to stay on Hueco Mundo?” Ise asked. She was apparently the spokeswoman for this part of the evening.

“No. But keep in mind that he may wish to,” Reyasa pointed out with a small, benevolent smile. “Our heritage is Kurosaki’s heritage. He may wish to learn about it.”

Yeah, and I bet you’d fucking love to teach him, Grimmjow thought, shooting a glare at the professor that he had to be able to feel burning into the side of his head. Fat chance, asshole. A guy like Ichigo shouldn’t have some soft academic for a _fideicomissario_. Ichigo was military, even if it was a different one, and so he should have a military _fideicomissario._

“Are _el juramento_ …pairings, partnerships, whatever, entered into some database somewhere?” Ise asked.

“Not when either or both parties is non-military,” Reyasa said.

Ise jumped on what she saw as a discrepancy. “Either? Not both? I didn’t know that happened.” 

“It’s uncommon, but sometimes a young civilian may pick a friend in the service as _fideicomissario._ It doesn’t happen the other way around, though.” 

Continuing on the offensive—why exactly Grimmjow didn’t know—Ise asked, “Why not? Conflict of Interest?”

Reyasa looked to him, and Grimmjow was glad he’d started paying attention again. 

“Eh, not really,” Grimmjow explained. Apparently he was the expert on how things worked in the modern military. “It’s not illegal or anythin’, but it just ain’t done. F—screws up  squad cohesion, to have someone who cares more about something else than his life with the guys he’s fightin’ beside.”

“Would such a person be suspected of disloyalty?” Ise pressed.

“No, not _dis_ loyalty, and not to Hueco Mundo. Just a lack of appropriate squad loyalty,” he assured her. Realizing what Ise was getting at, he continued, “Lemme see if this helps. Ya can ask the prof, here, but as far as I know, back in the day, when there was factions fightin’ all over the place, if a young soldier underwent _el juramento_ when he was in enemy hands, he might switch sides ta be with his _fideicomissario_ if he was waverin’ in the first place, but there ain’t ever been a case of makin’ a spy that way. It’s strong, an’ it’s important, but it’s meant ta compliment, not override, real loyalty.”

Reyasa jumped in with, “There’s a famous play about this, actually. Namike, a young soldier captured by a different faction, undergoes _el juramento_ with the enemy’s general as _fideicomissario_. Most similar historical cases actually are now considered gravely criminal, but in this one, the general wooed Namike even before the time for his _juramento_ came. He treated Namike so well that the boy became infatuated with him. 

“The story is a tragedy—Namike ends up having to kill the general for the good of his faction, and he goes through with it despite how much pain it causes him. The appeal of the story is that the audience understands that Namike never really has a choice; that all of them would do the same.”

Uh, right. Okay then. Grimmjow continued, “So what I’m sayin' is that if Kurosaki is loyal to ya, he ain’t gonna turn coat just because o’ this. And we ain’t even enemies, anyway.”

“Very well,” Ise said, “And what happens in cases where no fideicomissario is designated?

“The empujador can choose someone even after the process begins, but if it has been more than three days, next of kin should also approve the choice,” Reyasa said. 

Grimmjow noticed the little guy’s—Yamada, his name was—eyes swivel around to land on him. Sizing him up or something; his stare had an evaluative flavor to it. When Grimmjow turned to meet his gaze, he startled and shied away.

The next question was Kuchiki’s, his first foray into the discussion he’d so far allowed their legal council to handle. “What if the next of kin disagrees with the choice?”

Reyasa answered, “It is rare, because causes so many problems. But usually an emergency hearing is convened, and a judge decides whether the family’s objection is a good one. It cannot merely be that they dislike the person the empujador—usually, their son—has chosen, but they must genuinely believe that the choice is dangerous or otherwise significantly outside the empujador’s best interest. The do not need to prove it, because time is of the essence. If they can show that their suspicion is warranted, then the empujador must choose another.”

Grimmjow swore this guy couldn’t give a succinct answer to save his life, but he actually did find the information useful and interesting, because he hadn’t known the protocol. It was actually good for him, that Ichigo would be allowed to choose. He was the Arrancar that Ichigo knew best, right? And he had the features that Ichigo would be on the lookout for in spades—he would be craving the reassurance that came with having someone else in command, and Grimmjow could certainly give him that. 

He thought back to their sparring session again, to the moment he’d won it, with Ichigo pinned under him. Those defiant eyes as he had struggled, hard enough to almost give Grimmjow the slip—Grimmjow so liked that look; it told him Ichigo had the spirit of a true fighter.

Then he’d realized he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how hard he struggled, and his defiant eyes had closed for a moment and then when they opened again there was something different in them as Ichigo’s body shivered and then relaxed under his. Grimmjow couldn’t tell you just what it was in those eyes then, but he knew he really fucking liked it. That breathless moment on top of Ichigo’s earlier defiance made that little sparring match the sweetest victory he’d had in a while. Grimmjow had been utterly captivated as Ichigo looked away, his expression something close to a pout, his cheeks burning as he said the surrender phrase Grimmjow had taught him, “ _Me rindo._ ” 

“ _Buena lucha,_ ” Grimmjow had accepted graciously, grinning, getting to his feet and offering Ichigo a hand to pull him up. He took it after a moment’s hesitation, and his hand felt warm and solid in Grimmjow’s own.

That indefinable something that he’d seen in Ichigo before he had surrendered told Grimmjow that even before _el juramento_ hit, there was a part of him that wanted to be overmastered; that enjoyed being pinned under Grimmjow; that liked having control of the situation taken from him. Did that mean he would be accepting of his body’s demands, now, because they were familiar? Or would he fight them all the harder, because it was just as much a part of his nature _not_ to submit?

Grimmjow couldn’t wait to find out. He very much wanted to just commandeer a small orbital vessel and just go steal Ichigo from the _Genryusai,_ but he knew that that would ultimately not go well at all. He bit back a sigh and tuned back in to the meeting.

“—you think of any more questions for Dr. Reyasa, feel free to ask them later,” Starrk was saying. “Now, let’s hear from Dr. Karanamo.”

Karanamo was a small woman, neat and trim with a dark bob and a _mascarita_ that resembled nothing so much as a pair of glasses. She began, “I did not prepare a speech because I wasn’t sure what you did and didn’t know. I’m sure you have many questions, and I will do my best to answer them. Please, Dr. Unohana, begin.”

“Thank you, Dr. Karanamo. I and my team do have many questions for you today. First, why is Ichigo experiencing this now? It seems unlikely to be a coincidence that he began to show symptoms shortly after arriving here on Hueco Mundo,” Unohana asked.

“The trigger for _el juramento_ is twofold: first, the individual must reach a certain point of physical maturity, what we might call the tail end of adolescence. Second, and more importantly, the individual must be exposed to a significant number of adult military caste males that are different from the ones he has been around since birth. Specifically, he must be exposed to their pheromonal secretions. Kurosaki had not met the second requirement until his arrival here,” Karanamo explained.

“Thank you for confirming that,” Unohana said. “Second, I need to know what exactly it is about the usual end to this process that is important, whether there is any other way to end it, and what will happen if it goes… untreated, I suppose you could say.”

“The easiest way to answer your questions is in reverse order. If nothing is done, Kurosaki will die, and it will be neither easy nor peaceful. We have not conducted live subject research on this matter due to ethical concerns, but the Mad Creator had no such concerns and we have his notes. Death usually occurs within two weeks of initial onset. Permanent damage, both physical and mental, seems to become inevitable around day ten. There is little risk before day seven, but after that, the hazards increase dramatically.”

Shit, it gave him the creeps just thinking about it—what a fucking terrible way to die. Permanent damage, she’d said… in the few stories Grimmjow had heard about this, that seemed to mean ‘insanity.’

“Second, there is no way other than the usual one to ‘treat’ _el juramento_. It can be delayed, but once it begins there is no medical intervention that can stop it. What is required is for the individual to be exposed to the appropriate pheromonal secretions in the appropriate quantity—that is, those that are emitted by post- _juramento_ military caste males when they experience sexual excitement and orgasm.”

Grimmjow had never been to a diplomatic meeting where the word ‘orgasm’ had been used before. He glanced around, looking for reactions. The _médicos_ , of course, were unfazed, but Ise’s cheeks were a little pink.

“Appropriate quantity?” Unohana prodded delicately. 

Karanamo allowed herself a small smile as she said, “It usually takes about three days together—I think the most useful unit of measurement here is to say that they need to do it about fifteen or twenty times.”

Kotetsu gasped, Kuchiki raised an eyebrow about three millimeters, and Starrk, Grimmjow, and—interestingly—Reyasa all had to smother reminiscent grins.

Unohana only frowned and said, “There is nothing, then, that necessitates the rigid active/receptive roles that Reyasa spoke of?”

“Not in that sense, no. But both empujador and fideicomissario are compelled towards those roles by both biological and cultural forces—among the biological ones are increased blood flow and sensitivity to the anus and to the prostate of the _empujador,_ and the fact that during _el juramento_ , stimulation there produces the a greater neurochemical pleasure response than stimulation elsewhere. All pleasure responses are heightened, but those ones are heightened the most.”

Grimmjow didn’t know what to make of all this medical talk about something that, in his experience, was about as far removed from the realm of the cold and technical as it was possible to be. He remembered Ylfordt, way back when, stretched out under him, openly weeping because he was so overcome with pleasure as Grimmjow fingered him for an hour straight; he remembered a young and slender Shawlong, his usual pride all but lost as he begged for more; he remembered his own _juramento_ , more than half a lifetime ago now, clinging to Sergeant Tenka for dear life, feeling that he would be swept away on an ocean of sensation if he didn’t hold tight enough. Talk of blood flow and neurochemistry and pleasure response hardly did those memories justice. 

“Furthermore, the pheromone signature of the empujador resembles that of the ovulating military caste female, only substantially more intense; its chemical message something like ‘this person is an available mate!’ The fideicomissario is basically trying to impregnate the empujador, and he cannot do that by stepping outside his proscribed role.”

Again, Grimmjow thought the ‘chemical message’ could be more accurately described as  “take me; fuck me; yours, yours, yours,” but maybe that was just him. It probably amounted to the same thing. He didn’t know about that ‘trying to impregnate’ shit, but whatever.

“Ah, I see,” Unohana said. “That would account for some of Kurosaki’s behavior, I suppose. But you have truly had no success in reproducing the necessary pheromones artificially?”

“No,” Karanamo replied, “And there have been sporadic efforts to do so over the years. We think Aizen must have had something like that; the first generation of Arrancar would have had to have a _fideicomissario_ , after all. From what we know of him, he likely modified himself somehow to play that role. I realize this is promising for your situation, but we don’t have his notes on that particular aspect of his research and I advise against delaying while we try to figure it out.”

“Why?” Unohana asked. “You said Kurosaki was in no danger for two more days.”

“I said he was in very little danger for two more days, actually,” Karanamo corrected her. “But please understand that Kurosaki is suffering—no one waits this long. To wait two days is tradition, to wait three is to push the boundary, to wait four is to push it further and a sign of a serious and possibly dangerous sensation-seeking tendency, and to wait five is almost unheard of. On my medical opinion, it is not worth prolonging his discomfort for such a long-shot chance at allowing a Shinigami to become his _fideicomissario_. His condition, while not ‘cured’ until the circumstances I mentioned earlier, will begin to improve as soon as he is exposed to any amount of the relevant pheromones.”

Unohana looked to Kuchiki, who let out a tiny sigh and said, “I agree with Karanamo; if the Arrancar have not figured it out in the past thousand years, it is unlikely that we will within the next two days. From what Reyasa has said, the risks of allowing an Arrancar to participate are minimal—the only question is who.”

“Um,” Yamada spoke up for the first time, timidly raising his hand. “Kurosaki will need to be briefed on the significance of situation before he chooses someone, of course, but he indicated to me shortly after all this began that he would not be averse to sexual relations with Espada Jaegerjaques, if the Espada is willing. I believe he is Kurosaki’s closest acquaintance among the Arrancar.”

Yes! Yes! Yes! Ichigo wanted him! He thought so, but to have it confirmed. Grimmjow locked eyes with Kuchiki and nodded. In his most official, serious voice, he said, “With the Primera’s permission, I would be honored to serve as Kurosaki’s _fideicomissario_ , and I would not take it to mean I had any claim on his loyalty. I will also keep it secret if you so wish.”

“You would have my permission and my blessing, and you, Kuchiki, would have my assurance that my Sexta will treat your subordinate well. He is an experienced fideicomissario,” Starrk put in. 

Grimmjow had agreed to support Starrk’s proposed tax increase on Hueco Mundo’s growing class of super-rich in exchange for that support. Little did Starrk know that he’d only been feigning opposition in the first place—politics wasn’t as much fun as fighting with swords and fists and claws, but it had its moments. Getting something for nothing out of a fellow Espada was always a nice feeling.

“I will tell Kurosaki of your offer,” Kuchiki said. “But please be aware I find it extremely suspicious that you are not demanding anything in return for this favor, Espada Jaegerjaques.”

Shit. Too eager. Damn, he was stupid. That was like Politicking 101; not to ever look too eager to do someone a favor. Kuchiki was right, it was suspicious.

Unable to come up with anything other than the truth, Grimmjow licked his lips, dropped his politician voice (to enhance the “I’m being open and truthful!” aspect of what he was about to say) and answered, “Yer Kurosaki an’ I have gotten ta know each other a bit. If I was in his place, I’d rather have someone who was partway to bein’ a friend than someone I never even met before for a _fideicomissario_. An’ besides, it’s like Yamada there said—maybe it ain’t just friends we’re partway ta bein’. I—how’d he say it?—“wouldn’t be averse” to doin’ this.”

Admitting to ulterior motives, as long as they weren’t too bad, was a good way to gain someone’s trust. Grimmjow hadn’t given much thought to what he would do if Kuchiki tried to block him, which was probably because his head was so full of sex fantasies he didn’t have any room to spare for violent ones. The answer that immediately sprang to mind was that he’d fucking kill Kuchiki, but that wouldn’t help much, he didn’t think. 

“I will consider this matter and speak to Kurosaki. CMO Unohana, do you have any more questions for Dr. Reyasa? I need you to speak to Kurosaki with me.”

“Yes, a great many. But since time appears to be of the essence, I will save them for another occasion,” Unohana answered, with a small smile for Karanamo. 

With that, the Primera stood and began the process of adjourning the meeting, which Grimmjow listened to with half an ear. This had gone just about as well as he possibly could have hoped, but the restless, nervous energy that had taken up residence just about in the same place as the hole in his belly was still there. It would be, he suspected, until a contented and thoroughly worn out Ichigo was sleeping in his arms, or at least until a revved-up, lust-crazed Ichigo was writhing around in his arms. One or the other. 

Over a century in Special Combat had give him plenty of experience with ‘hurry up and wait,’ but it always sucked just as much as it had the first time. Nothing else for it, though.

Kuchiki, he thought, you’d better not fuck me over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I came up with the idea for el juramento, I gradually became more and more worried about its sexist and gender essentialist implications. Fortunately, Hallibel, who seems like kind of a proto-feminist in canon, showed up at this meeting to provide some much needed criticism. I hope it wasn't confusing or too at odds with the general tone, but I felt like it needed to be said and it was better to work it in somehow than just put it in a note.
> 
> If you're still worried about Ichigo being treated as subordinate by Grimmjow, please don't worry too much--by the end of the story, Grimmjow will have no such illusions. The Ichigo we all know and love is not going to stand for that nonsense.


	6. A View of the Situation from 4'8"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rukia is summoned to help out a distressed Renji, and is disturbed (among other things) by the state she finds Ichigo in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is something of an interlude; It's not 100% necessary to the narrative, but I thought this story needed more Rukia, and I figured you guys might be wondering how Ichigo is doing, so I got Rukia to ~~perv on~~ check on him.
> 
> (Also, like Rukia, a reluctant Renji is one of my favorite flavors of Renji, so I got a kick out of that part and hope you guys do too.)

Rukia’s communicator chirped, startling her from her cozy chair in her quarters where she was curled up reading a novel, trying not to worry about Ichigo.

She pressed the button to answer, and out came Renji’s voice. He sounded very strange when he greeted her. “Rukia?”

“Yes, Renji?”

“I think you should come to my office, I have—“ Renji’s voice sounded tight and strained, and here he broke off on something that sounded like a gasp. He finished, “—there’s a situation.”

Rukia was already on her feet, grabbing Sodenoshirayuki and heading out the door. Was Renji hurt? He kind of sounded like he was in pain, but something wasn’t quite right about that diagnosis of the situation. She responded, “I’m on my way. What’s wrong, Renji? Are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied squeakily, “but I have a visitor and I need your help to get him back to the infirmary.”

A second voice broke in, and yes, that was Ichigo, although he sounded really strange as well, sort of soft and dreamy, yet tense at the same time. “The infirmary? I don’t wanna go back there. Besides, Rennn-ji—“ He drew Renji’s name out into something singsong and teasing, “I don’t belong in the infirmary. It’s for the infirm, and I think I’m plenty firm, don’t you?” 

Ichigo laughed, a kind of laugh that she had never heard from him before, low and rich. Then just barely loud enough for her to hear, as if he had half-whispered it to Renji, he added, “Mmm…you don’t belong there, either.”

“Shit, _Ichigo…_ You can’t just take those off—”

Then she lost the connection. Rukia broke into a run, totally alarmed by how out of it Ichigo sounded as well as Renji’s obvious distress. And what had Ichigo been doing? Taking what off? What was all that about the infirmary and being firm? Surely it wasn’t what it had sounded like… But then again, that laugh had an unmistakable bedroom quality to it. What the hell?

She hurried, but her quarters were on the whole other side of the ship from Niisama’s office and Renji’s little adjoining one, and it took her a solid five minutes to get there, even at a brisk run.

Bursting through the door to Renji’s office, Rukia just had to stop and stare, her mouth hanging open. Her first thought was that she was probably dreaming, and having an awesome dream at that, because the scene in front of her was ludicrously hot. Then she remembered that Ichigo was sick and Renji was freaked out and she was here to put a stop to this. Whatever was going on here, getting turned on was not the correct response to it.

But Ichigo was sprawling in a wide-eyed Renji’s lap, draped over him with his back to Renji’s chest, and Renji’s hand was curled around Ichigo's cock through his hakama, stroking it steadily. Ichigo's own hand was resting lightly on Renji's wrist, as if he'd guided his hand to where he wanted it but Renji had taken over from there, presumably against his better judgement. Ichigo was rocking his hips, thrusting into his and Renji’s grip and grinding against Renji’s lap, rolling and swiveling, sinuous and utterly without shame as he rubbed himself all over his friend. Her task was an important one, but she was really having a hard time doing anything other than staring.

“—wrong with you, you’re burning up with fever!” Renji was saying.

“What’s wrong is that—ah—your dick isn’t in me right now. Fever… just means I’d be so hot inside, right? Wouldn’t it— yeah, touch me—feel good? You wouldn’t even…nn… have to do anything.  I got myself ready before I came here; all slick inside for you—no foreplay, no prep, just bend me over this desk right here and fuck me as hard as you want.” 

“I can’t!” Renji protested, and it came out somewhere between a moan and a distressed wail. “You’re not in your right mind! “

In response, Ichigo found Renji’s other hand and brought it to his lips, sucking the middle two fingers into his mouth, making Renji groan.

Rukia must have made some kind of sound because they both became aware of her presence, two pairs of eyes fixed on her, one red with the whites showing the whole way around, the other brown and glassy with hugely dilated pupils. 

“Hi, Rukia,” Ichigo greeted her casually, seemingly unbothered by being caught in such a compromising position. 

“Will you tell Renji that it’s okay to fuck me? I think that’s why he says he doesn’t wanna even though I can feel how much he does, cause he thinks you’ll be mad. But you won’t, right? My body is burning, and I know you won’t mind if he helps me out, so tell him, please,” Ichigo said, still in that same distant, strung-tight tone. “You can even join if you want; I wound’t mind and I bet Renji would like it. I’ll do you while Renji does me.”

Worry and arousal warred in her mind for supremacy, blending together into an unpleasant sensation in the pit of her stomach. This was clearly not right _at all_ , but she'd never seen either of her boys in a state like this and it was pretty damn distracting. Despite his obvious near-panic, Renji's face was flushed, his hair was mussed, his lips were parted and he was breathing a little heavily. More distracting still was the way he wasn't quite managing to stop himself from rocking up into the warm weight on his lap, his hips moving in furtive little jerks. She couldn't stop imagining what it must be like for Ichigo to feel Renji's arousal so clearly. Oh, she wanted to feel it, too.

Renji's massive hand was still where Ichigo had put it, not moving anymore but still cupping Ichigo's... Ichigo's... Ichigo's hard cock! Renji was touching Ichigo there, right in front of her eyes... As for Ichigo, he looked like his picture ought to be in the dictionary next to ‘wanton.’ His head had lolled back against Renji's shoulder, and wasn't even trying to still or hide the motion of his hips--though Renji's had stopped stroking him, he hadn't moved it away, and now Ichigo was rocking between the two points of stimulation vigorously enough that if they weren't both still fully dressed, she might guess he was actually riding Renji right now.

Not to mention the way he'd just blithely offered to make one of her all time favorite fantasies come true.

Rukia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then another one; trying to calm herself down and focus. It wasn't appropriate or even acceptable for her to get so excited by this--something was clearly badly wrong with Ichigo. Renji, conflicted as he obviously was, was quite right: giving in to Ichigo's demands, offers, and cajoling would definitely be taking advantage. But what the hell was happening? Ichigo was usually a little shy even talking about sex; to see him so brazen was disturbing. Rukia would have guessed that he’d been drugged, but he’d been locked up in the infirmary for  _days_ ; surely a drug would have cleared his system by now. 

Not only was he… like this… he also didn’t look well, physically. Once she noticed this and started to focus on it, her arousal diminished and her worry grew. Ichigo's skin was pale and he had two bright fever spots on his cheeks, plus his lips looked dry and cracked. The way he moved, now that she looked more closely, seemed a little off, like it was more work for him than it ought to be. Also, with a slender build like Ichigo’s, even a few days of not eating properly showed, and Rukia could tell that he hadn’t been taking care of himself in that regard. 

The first order of business is to get him away from Renji and back to the infirmary, and then she was going to have words with Unohana. Captain or no, scary or no, Ichigo was her friend, and it seemed like he wasn’t being properly cared for. At the very least, she would find out what was wrong.

“I don’t mind what you and Renji do. But since you’re sick, you’ve got to do it in the infirmary,” Rukia tried.

Ichigo scowled at her, which despite the fact that it communicated his dubiousness of her proposal, made her feel a little better because the expression was so at home on his face, so normal for him. “Don’t lie, Rukia; you just want me to go back there. I don’t want to; it’s lonely.” 

“I know. But how about I go back with you, then we can ask the doctor about if Renji can come?” Rukia suggested. Ichigo seemed to have no interest in throwing himself at her the way he was doing with Renji, so it seemed like a good plan to her.

Renji disagreed. “Rukia, no! That’s not a good idea.”

Ichigo stopped his slow, likely subconscious writhing and stood, turning around to glare at Renji. His voice was clipped and hard, worlds away from the dreamy, distant tone he’d had only moments ago. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“Uh…” Renji said, unsure what to say. What he’d meant was pretty obvious, that he thought being alone with this oversexed Ichigo might be dangerous for her, but it looked like that suggestion was what had pissed Ichigo off in the first place. 

“I’m waiting,” Ichigo said flatly.

“Look, man,” Renji began, and Rukia knew this was going to be bad just by Renji’s defensive tone. “You come in here and throw yourself at me, why would I think you wouldn’t do the same to Rukia?”

“First, it’s not like I tried to overpower you, Renji. It’s also not like you managed an unequivocal ‘no’ or tried to fight me. I would never, _never_ hurt Rukia. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do, but you’re not yourself…”

“Okay, no. Fuck this,” Ichigo spat, as pissed as she’d ever seen him. Whatever was affecting him seemed to make him more volatile than usual. He looked unsteady on his feet, too; weak, even, and she realized in the moment before he did it that since he couldn’t lash out with his fists or his sword, he was going to do it with words.

“I came in here looking for Captain Kuchiki, anyway, and decided that since you were here and he wasn’t, you’d do. Even if you are a spineless coward who can’t even tell the woman you love—“ and here he pointed at Rukia, “—how you feel, so you screw around with your best friend—“ here he pointed to himself, “—who’s good enough for a hand job and apparently nothing else. It’s not that you don’t _want_ to fuck me, in fact you want it so bad you can’t say no to me without her here to back you up. No, you just don’t want to sully yourself by being with another man, you fucking hypocrite! You’ll never be half the Captain your boss is.”

With that, Ichigo turned and strode out of the room, only pausing in the doorway to throw one last jibe over his shoulder. “And you know that fluffy shawl thing that’s part of your Bankai? It looks stupid as fuck and really, really gay.”

Renji just stared after him, apparently too stunned at Ichigo’s disjointed tirade to be angry or hurt (yet). She knew he would be, because she knew full well that at least some of it was true.

“He didn’t mean it, Renji; he’s obviously not entirely in his right mind,” Rukia said, and she was sure about the latter part of the statement, anyway. “I’ll be back to talk to you later, but right now I need to see he gets back okay. And don’t start, he’s not dangerous; he’s so weak he can barely stand, and besides, although he’s really frustrated and was really pissed at you, he didn’t take a swing, so he's obviously not violent.”

She followed Ichigo out of the room, worried for him and Renji both. Fortunately, he wasn’t moving too fast and she caught up quickly. 

“Hey, Ichigo,” she said, “You doing okay?”

“No,” he replied despairingly. “I can’t believe I said all that. I was just so pissed about him saying I might try to fucking rape you that I lost my temper and started thinking of everything else that pisses me off about him. Which is a lot, apparently. I didn’t realize I was so mad at him.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Rukia asked. “I didn’t know there was anything going on with you two.”

“Ah, I don’t want to talk about it just now. I can’t think about anything like that… He’s going to kill me for letting on about you, though.”

Rukia snorted in wry amusement. “Ichigo. Did you really think that I didn’t know how Renji feels about me?”

He turned to her, his face animated, “I knew it! I’ve been trying to tell him you already know because it’s stupidly obvious to anyone with eyes! Wait, so do you not want him to say anything ‘cause you’ll have to shoot him down? He’s a blockhead, but…”

She sighed. “I want him to either step up or move on. I’d be willing to give it a shot if he’d stop… He’s got this idea that he needs to get stronger than my brother first, and that’s A, just stupid and irrelevant, and B, not going to happen any time soon, if ever. I have no idea why he’s got this into his head; it’s not like he’s going to have to fight him to… to… _win_ me _._ ”

“Maybe you should tell him that,” Ichigo suggested.

“He needs to figure it out by himself!” Rukia replied, her own Renji-related frustrations beginning to get the better of her. She liked Renji, she really did, he was her oldest friend and one of the best, but man, did he have issues.

Her irritation disappeared, replaced by concern, as Ichigo stumbled, throwing out a hand to catch himself on the bulkhead. He made an unhappy frustrated sound, and she realized that he was breathing hard. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, reaching out to touch him. His skin was so hot, too hot, like he had a high fever. Renji had said as much, but she hadn’t expected it to be this bad. “You’re burning up!”

“Yeah,” he sighed, and she greatly misliked the despairing edge to his tone. “Just give me a minute.”

“What’s… what’s wrong with you?” Rukia asked, real fear for his safety clutching icily at her heart for the first time. She had thought this was just another weird mishap, but…

“I don’t know,” Ichigo replied tonelessly. “No one does. It looks like I’m part Arrancar on my mother’s side, and coming here seems to have triggered this, but what or why… None of it makes sense, medically or otherwise.”

“Are you in danger?” Rukia asked, dreading the answer.

“Not yet. Soon, unless I start to get better. My body is screaming, burning for something I can’t give it, and apparently, you can only do that for so long before the stress kills you,” Ichigo explained, starting to sound distant again.

“So with Renji, that was…”

“I need, Rukia, I just… need,” Ichigo said, his voice tight like, like… like he was restraining tears? She’d never seen Ichigo cry, not even at his mother’s grave, not even when he’d thought they were all going to die. If he was… Oh, _Ichigo._

“I can—” she began, because she would, willingly. Even if it hurt, she wouldn’t mind, if got him out of this wretched state.

He shook his head before she could finish. “No, not that. That’s why it doesn’t make sense, I want… something else. Not something you—or any woman—can do.”

Oh, right—with Renji, he’d said… That _was_ strange. “Well, is it okay if I just stay for a while, then?” 

He smiled at her, so grateful it hurt. “I’m not sure Unohana and Ca—Byakuya would like it, but they’re apparently off at some kind of meeting. They’ve been keeping me isolated, for my own good and the safety of others. I thought I did better alone, too, but it’s good to have someone to talk to.”

A sudden flash of anger rushed through her, at herself and at Niisama. Her brother… he didn’t know Ichigo like she did. He must think that isolation was best because if it was him in this condition, he wouldn’t want anyone to see him so unguarded. But Ichigo was different, he cared more about his relationships than his pride. He needed people in a way that Byakuya didn’t allow himself, in a way that he had probably forgotten and lost the gift of. But dammit, he should have told her; she should have been here all along!

“I’m sorry I haven’t been here until now,” Rukia said, and now it was her turn to have to restrain the feeling in her voice. “Nobody told me… I thought you had something contagious, and I wanted to see you anyway, even through a video screen or something, but Niisama kept telling me not to worry and that I should let you rest.”

Her excuses sounded weak, even to her, but Ichigo only said, “It’s okay. I’m glad Renji called you.” 

She smiled back, hoping he couldn’t see the water she felt pooled in her eyes. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Ichigo said, straightening and starting forward again, “We’re almost there. I’ve got nice digs for the duration, so at least it won’t be as cramped as my regular room.”

She didn’t say anything for the rest of the walk back, so as to allow Ichigo to focus his limited energy on the simple task of moving his body. She wished she could help him more, that what he needed was something she could give him. His body was telling him that he needed to be… what? Penetrated? He was right, that made no sense from an evolutionary standpoint, but from what he’d said and how he was acting with Renji, that was what he was craving.

It could be worse. At least Ichigo liked men ordinarily, and she knew that he’d done, uh, _that_ before—she couldn’t help the small smile as she recalled the time he’d earnestly and very drunkenly explained what anal sex was like and how to do it at the request of an equally drunk Rangiku, whose then-boyfriend had apparently requested it. (“Lots of lube,” he’d insisted, gesturing expansively, waving his arm in a way that had seemed to indicate something like a bathtub-size amount, “ _Lots_.”) 

Rukia had looked on, red-faced from more from embarrassment than the sake and giggling hysterically. Both her and Rangiku had just about died laughing when he started in with the illustrative finger-wiggling, but Rangiku later reported that Ichigo’s advice had actually been very helpful because the boyfriend apparently had no idea what he was doing. (“It’s not what one usually means when one says that Ichigo saved their ass, but it’s soooo true,” she had confided.)

The point was that she was glad Ichigo’s condition wasn’t a major challenge to his image of himself in the way it would be for, say, Renji. She was sure that it was plenty upsetting to him as it was, to have his body demanding such a thing for no apparent reason, but it would be far worse if the focus of his desire was something he ordinarily reviled. 

These reflections carried her back to Ichigo’s room, where he ushered her in and got them some tea from the matter compiler, sitting her down in nice little sitting area, similar to the type a vice-captain would have aboard ship. It seemed a little stuffy and close—Ichigo’s fever must be making him feel cold, so he’d turned the temperature controls up. The place wasn’t too much of a mess, but there was a musky scent hanging in the air; sex, she supposed, but she had never smelled that without the female component. Poor Ichigo, stuck in here all alone, trying and failing to satisfy himself. 

Had Brother and Captain Unohana not allowed him to have someone come and help him? She knew many men on the ship would be tripping over themselves for the chance to ‘help’. Maybe it wouldn’t actually help, or maybe they were worried that he wasn’t capable of real consent… Ichigo seemed coherent enough now, albeit somewhat raw and emotionally vulnerable, but in Renji’s presence he’d been pretty out of it. From Renji’s reaction, she doubted Ichigo had given him a very coherent explanation of the situation; more like he’d just flung himself at Renji, offering himself up.

Rukia really did feel guilty at the way the thought of that scene made something low in her belly clench hot and tight. Ichigo had looked so terribly lewd, writhing in Renji’s lap, and there must be something wrong with her because the expression of panicked, reluctant lust and pleasure on Renji’s face just really fucking did it for her. 

“So,” Rukia said, forcefully redirecting her thoughts. “You’re part Arrancar? How’s that work?”

“My mom’s father, whom she never knew at all, must have been an Arrancar,” he explained. “Either she didn’t know or she didn’t tell my dad—when I got gene scanned upon joining the Shinigami military, they found out that I had some weird genes; that I’m a little over half Shinigami, then something else that they couldn’t identify, about a quarter, then human. It still needs confirming, but since I came here, there’s been stuff going on in my body linked to those genes… it’s unlikely to be a coincidence.”

“If that’s right, I wonder if you have family here…” Rukia mused.

Ichigo blinked at her, surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You should look for them,” Rukia said. “It’s good to find family, even as an adult, even if it’s not what you would have expected.” 

“They’d be… what? Cousins?” Ichigo wondered. 

“Perhaps an aunt or uncle, too—it’s possible your mother would have had a half-sibling or two here. Maybe cousins, or probably at least second cousins if your grandfather didn’t have any fully Arrancar children.”

“Cousins… I never had any cousins. Hey, Yuzu and Karin would have cousins, too! This is good, I wonder if I could figure out who it was and what he was doing on Earth, anyway…” Ichigo mused, caught by the idea of having family he’d never met. 

“So once you’re feeling better, that’ll be a good project. I bet it won’t even be that hard! The Arrancar keep good records of all off-planet travel,” Rukia offered.

“Yeah,” Ichigo agreed, “Although I don’t know what my family here would be like… I feel like that guy must have been a real jerk for getting my grandmother knocked up and then leaving.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Rukia said, “He might not have had a choice, or maybe he had a good reason, or maybe he never even knew she was pregnant. ”

Ichigo frowned. “That must have been hard for her, though. People weren’t kind to single moms in those days.”

Rukia nodded, considering. “You can try to find out what happened, then, and why things went the way they did.”

“I don’t know…” Ichigo said, sighing. “Maybe it’s just better to leave things as they are. Arrancar are almost as long-lived as Shinigami; what if that guy is still alive? I don’t know if I want a grandfather.”

Rukia leaned forward to reach across the table and put a hand on Ichigo’s shoulder. “I’m not telling you what to do, Ichigo, and I know the situations are not the same, but I just want to tell you how glad I am to have found out that I had a sister, even if I never got to meet her. And because of her, I have a family, I have Nii-sama, even if we’re not related by blood.”

“And maybe your family will turn out to be weird, but I bet it’ll be worth it. I’m glad of mine, even if Nii-sama… the way Nii-sama is. He’s a good brother, even if he is arrogant and always defaults to Captain-mode, even at home.“

“Rukia,” Ichigo said, and it came out almost like a groan. “Don’t talk about him. Please.”

“Huh? Why not?” she asked, and then she looked at Ichigo, really looked, and saw that the fever-flush on his cheeks had darkened; that his eyes had gone a little distant and his pupils were dilated; that his lips were parted and his breathing had picked up again. And, as her eyes were drawn downward almost against her will, she saw that the bulge between his legs that she had been ignoring had become more difficult to ignore. 

“This thing is making you horny for my brother?!” Rukia cried incredulously.

Ichigo nodded, looking away. “You have no idea. I just want to—“ 

He broke off with a frustrated noise, Rukia didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed that Ichigo didn’t say what exactly he wanted to do with her brother, but from what he’d said earlier, she could picture it anyway.

“Why him? Not that I don’t understand it, but I didn’t think you even liked him at all,” Rukia asked, very curious.

“He’s—“ Ichigo started to say, but was cut off when his communicator beeped. He answered it, “Kurosaki here.”

“Kurosaki, I must speak with you,” Nii-sama said from the other end of the line. Ichigo bit his lip to strangle what she thought might have been an actual moan, his eyes squeezed shut. He looked more like someone had just started to go down on him or something than a guy just having a conversation. 

“O-Oh?” he managed after a second.

“We understand your condition better now, but you must be the one to decide how we proceed. As the situation is not only medical but also diplomatic, Captain Unohana and I must discuss it with you.”

“Nii-sama, this is Rukia,” Rukia cut in, “I am here with Ichigo, and I don’t think what you’re saying is a good idea. If you need him clearheaded, then the meeting should involve only women. Even over the communicator, his… symptoms have become much worse since you started speaking.”

“What are you doing there, Rukia? Kurosaki was not to have any visitors,” Nii-sama said sternly.

“It’s a long story, but it’s fine. It’s not important right now, and it sounds like this meeting is. Ichigo tolerates my presence well, so I can sit in and report to you afterward, or you can brief me beforehand if you need to,” Rukia offered.

“Very well,” Nii-sama agreed, although he didn’t sound pleased. “I suppose Unohana can handle it. Bring Kurosaki to the infirmary’s meeting room in fifteen minutes. Since apparently you already understand the situation, you can sit in.”

“We’ll be there, sir,” she confirmed. “Kuchiki out.”

Nii-sama cut the connection from his end without saying anything further, and Rukia turned to Ichigo, who had his eyes closed and was clearly trying—and by the looks of things, failing—to calm down.

“Ichigo?” she prompted, and he blinked open his hazy eyes, so dark they looked drugged, and looked at her vaguely. “You’ve got a few minutes, why don’t you… um…”

She trailed off, unsure how to phrase what she meant. After all, she didn’t want to make this more awkward than it already was. She ignored the thought that even though she wasn’t really what Ichigo wanted, she could make him feel better, temporarily at least—that would be nothing other than taking advantage, and the idea was unworthy of their friendship, even if it would be kind of hot. No, Ichigo would have to take care of himself.

“Your fever…” she began, struck by inspiration, “It’s making you sweat. You should probably take a shower before the meeting! That’ll give you a few minutes to, uh, compose yourself, too.”

She was kind of hoping for a rueful smile as a response, but all she got was a distant “Right. Thanks, Rukia,” before Ichigo tottered off to the room’s little bathroom.

She heard the water turn on and tried not to picture Ichigo in the shower, tried not to picture the the soap suds sliding down his lean, incredibly toned body, the way his skin would glisten from the water. She especially tried not to picture the pleasure and relief on his face as he wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it, hard and fast, imagining Niisama taking him. 

She tried not to picture that, either, but despite the fact that she had a great deal of practice at trying not to imagine Niisama naked, she still wasn’t very good at it. She could imagine it perfectly; Ichigo with his hands braced against the wall, halfway bent over with Niisama behind him and inside him, his long-fingered hands tight on Ichigo’s hips. 

Needless to say, her ‘not-picturing’ campaign had failed miserably. This was not terribly surprising—evolution, she supposed, had programmed her to react in one of two ways to a male displaying such obvious signs of arousal in her presence—if she found him unacceptable, she would react with fear, her fight-or-flight response kicking in, but if she found him acceptable (and oh, was he ever) it only made sense for her body and mind to both respond with answering excitement (fight or flight or fuck, she supposed).

Her inner cave-Rukia wanted very much to let Ichigo carry her off to his lair and screw her senseless, thus paving the way for the next generation of super powerful, super fast, super smart (that part would be her contribution), and super attractive (with a contribution from them both) little orange-haired cave kids, thus greatly furthering the genetic strength of the Shinigami race. 

With that causal story firmly in mind, Rukia didn’t feel _too_ guilty when Ichigo proved to be to out of it (or maybe too into it) to remember that he was supposed to be quiet and she thoroughly enjoyed the few moans she could hear above the sound of the water running. Ichigo came (or at least she guessed that’s what it was) with a high, keening cry that brought a flush to her cheeks with its sheer wantonness. She kind of hoped that Ichigo really would need someone to sleep with him to cure this, even if it wasn’t her—it just seemed a shame to waste him when he was so hot like this. 

A few more minutes passed and she starts to worry that Ichigo had passed out and was currently drowning in the shower, but then the water shut off, so he must have just been doing the things that one was actually supposed to do in the shower; washing his hair, that type of thing. Figuring he’d come out soon, she stood, patting down her shihakusho to make sure it was in order—not that it had any reason not to be, really, though she rather felt like it did. Embarrassed, she figured she better check for a wet spot on the back of her hakama, but fortunately there wasn’t one. These panties, though, had to go, and soon. 

She felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Renji—she found Ichigo in this state almost intolerably sexy and he wasn’t even directing it at her; no wonder Renji hadn’t been able to manage an outright refusal. She was over her crush on Ichigo, mostly, but _damn_ , was that guy attractive. Orihime had been a fool to let him go. Actually, no, she liked them both but she’d always thought they were terrible together, so she supposed it had been a good call. But still.

Ichigo appeared; sadly, he had found a fresh shihakusho somewhere and wasn’t wrapped in only a towel. He looked a little more with it, although not really all that much. Slightly less tense, which was good, and slightly sleepier, like if she touched him he’d be warm and pliant, and if she kissed him, it would be soft and just slightly too wet. Agh, what the hell—was this… this… _condition_ contagious, or what? What was with her, that seeing Ichigo so vulnerable made her like this? 

Anyway, this was as coherent as it was going to get, it seemed. She suspected that the time before Niisama had called was the exception and this was the rule; that Ichigo’s anger at Renji and then relief at having someone to talk to had acted to clear his head for a while, and now he was back to the way he had been, to the state of mind that had prompted him to break out of here and come looking for Niisama or Renji or whoever he’d actually set out to find.

“Come on, Ichigo,” she prompted, “Let’s go see what Unohana has for you.”

“Okay,” Ichigo replied unenthusiastically, and they set off together for the meeting room next door.

Unohana had better have something good, that was all Rukia had to say right now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week on El Juramento:  
> THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! Unless the moment you've been waiting for is for Our Heroes to sit down and have a conversation, in which case you'll have to wait another week. 
> 
> **Shameless self-plug**  
> If you find yourself wishing that the situation with Rukia, Renji, and Ichigo would have gotten a little further out of hand, be aware that you may enjoy my new story [Solutions for the Three Body Problem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7064953). It's a post-canon IchiRenRuki standalone fic, and by standalone, I mean PWP. In it, everything is sex and happiness.


	7. You Can Holler, You Can Flail, You Can Blow What's Left of My Right Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmjow arrives aboard the _Genryuusai,_ encounters a few Shinigami, and finally, finally gets to see Ichigo. In fact, he gets to do a lot more than see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I decided fairly late that this chapter needed more sex and then didn't feel like writing last night, so I've been working on it basically nonstop today. I didn't want to post it late again, so I'm sorry if parts of it are a little unpolished. 
> 
> This chapter, you may find this *glossary* useful for Grimmjow's Arrancar Language (...still Spanish...) terms of endearment, terms of "endearment", and body parts.
> 
>  _dulzura_ —sweet one/sweet thing
> 
>  _nene_ —baby/babe (male form), usually used more as a term of endearment than for an actual baby.
> 
>  _pequeña puta_ —little bitch/whore/generic-feminine-insult
> 
>  _pequeña ramera; mi ramera_ —little slut; my slut (more specific than _puta_ and I think less insulting—alternate translations include “trollop” and “harlot”. Hopefully it’s not so outdated as those—I mean can you imagine using the word ‘trollop' in dirty talk? “Yeah, suck it—you’re such a trollop…” XD )
> 
>  _agujero_ —hole, used here specifically for a Hollow hole. 
> 
> _mascarita_ —this one is not being used in a way congruent with its actual meaning. I meant it as a made-up word meaning “little mask”, for an Arrancar’s partial mask. The proper Spanish word for mask is _mascara,_ and I just couldn’t handle having to talk about Grimmjow’s mascara. Mascarita seems to actually mean a masked performer, like at Carnivale or something.
> 
> Enjoy this extra-long chapter, now with 2x the amount of sex. : 3

 

As soon as he materialized aboard the _Genryuusai,_ he could smell it. His nostrils flared and he licked his lips, starting to get turned on just from that—had it smelled so sweet, the last time he’d taken someone’s _juramento_? As conscious thought caught up with instinct, he wondered why he could smell it, anyway; was Ichigo here? Grimmjow didn’t see him. So was their air filtration just janky or what? No, no, the scent was coming from a member of his welcome committee, strong enough that it suggested that this red haired fucker whose name he couldn’t remember had been in substantial contact with Ichigo very recently. 

Before he quite knew quite what he was doing, he was right up in the guy’s face, pinning him to the wall with an arm on across his chest. 

“What the fuck did ya do?” he snarled. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” the guy snapped back, clearly very confused.

“Kurosaki. Ya smell like ya were rollin around all over him,” Grimmjow hissed. “Yer boss and I agreed that he’s mine for the duration.” 

“ _Yours?_ We’re only allowin’ this because it’s the only thing that‘ll help him, so don’t get so cocky. Ichigo’s not _yours_ ; he’s not anybody’s!” the guy spat. 

Before Grimmjow could say anything, Kuchiki cut in, a restraining hand on Grimmjow’s shoulder (a bold move, Grimmjow conceded, as he suppressed the urge to snap at it) as he addressed the two near-combatants, “My apologies for this situation; I did not realize your nose was so keen, Espada Jaegerjaques. Tell him what you told me, Vice-Captain Abarai.”

“Captain, this guy’s a psycho! You can’t seriously be thinking about letting him near Ichigo!” Abarai protested.

Grimmjow pressed him harder against the wall. Kuchiki’s hand on his shoulder tightened and he said, “This is a cultural misunderstanding. Please tell the Espada what happened, Vice-Captain.”

  Abarai sighed, irritated. Grimmjow could smell alcohol on his breath. Apparently he’d found his encounter with his friend traumatic, or if he was sensible it had been the need to refuse that had driven him to drink.

Abarai began, in a tone that reminded Grimmjow of a sulky child. “Ichigo came to my office a bit less than an hour before Captain called about result of the meeting and kinda threw himself at me. I had no idea what was going on, but I got our other friend to come—a woman; he didn’t get excited about her—to take him back to the infirmary. I managed to get him to keep all his clothes on until she got there, but he was kinda, as you said, rollin’ around all over me.”

“And what did you do before this friend got there?” Grimmjow inquired, low and menacing. 

“Nothing, man! Now, back the fuck off!” Abarai protested, hands coming up to shove at him. 

Grimmjow didn’t budge head, but his head turned slowly turned to look at Abarai’s right hand on his shoulder, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. Abarai’s eyes went wide and he lowered his hands hastily; incriminatingly quick. This complete and utter assholehad his hands _all over_ Ichigo, touching his incapacitated friend in ways he shouldn’t have. And he hadn’t even washed his hands, the idiot.

“Liar,” Grimmjow breathed. He wanted to rip that hand off, and that was just for starters. That Abarai would dare touch what was his… It was a hundred years too early for this punk to step one toe into Grimmjow’s territory.

Abarai blanched as he took in Grimmjow’s expression, but Grimmjow felt the rising pressure of the redhead’s reiatsu to match his own, ready for a fight.

“Espada Jaegerjaques,” Kuchiki said firmly, his fucking irritating hand tightening further on Grimmjow’s shoulder. “This is not why you are here. What’s done is done. Let my man go.”

Grimmjow drew a deep breath, trying to calm down. Kuchiki was right. He knew Kuchiki was right, but Abarai had dared…

The deep breaths were not helping. Not at all, when he could smell Ichigo’s scent mingled with this red-haired ape’s. Abarai should— _would_ die for this insult; for this encroachment; and most importantly, because his clear lack of self-restraint was a danger to Ichigo.

He wanted to bring out Pantera’s claws and rip this fucker to shreds, but Grimmjow had spent a lifetime trying to master the legendary Jaegerjaques temper; the tendency towards destruction that made the men of his family such feared and ferocious warriors. He’d seen what could happen if it was allowed free rein, and he’d sworn never to allow himself to become a rabid dog like his father. He’d sworn he’d never let it truly get the best of him; sworn he’d never let that blind, killing rage take him over anywhere except a battlefield.

It would feel so good to give in—but then he’d have to fight his way to Ichigo, who wouldn’t want him because Grimmjow had slaughtered his friends. The idea of watching Ichigo’s body’s demands slowly overwhelm his mind’s control was not unappealing; his sadistic side quite liked the idea of Ichigo desperately needing Grimmjow to take him but resisting with everything he had at the same time, crying with shame as he moaned with pleasure.

It was this mental picture that snapped him out of his haze of violent anger—he wouldn’t do that. By agreeing to this, he had agreed to protect Ichigo and take care of him, at least for the short term, and harming someone he’d promised to protect would make him something utterly despicable. This, at least, he was not of two minds about. 

Grimmjow stepped back and let Abarai off the wall, dismissing him from his mind. His anger receded as quickly as it had come, the same way it always did, leaving cool nothingness in its wake.

He turned towards Kuchiki, his voice devoid of emotion, and said, “Take me to Kurosaki.” This delay was intolerable—to Ichigo especially, if he was far gone enough to consider that redheaded fool an acceptable candidate.

He half-expected Kuchiki to say some something about his display, maybe even to question his fitness to as Ichigo’s _fideicomissario_. He didn’t, though; if anything, he seemed sympathetic. Oh ho, Grimmjow thought—perhaps Kuchiki understood his struggle; maybe there was some fire under that cool exterior after all. That or maybe he just found his subordinate so profoundly irritating that he could relate to Grimmjow’s frustration.

Kuchiki silently led the way to the infirmary, where they’d been keeping Ichigo in a private room. Isolated, if you could believe that. Of all the idiotic things… With no one to talk to and keep him distracted, he’d be tearing himself apart, mentally. Traditionally, he should have had several visits per day from a sister or close female friend while he awaited his _fideicomissario_ ’s arrival.  

The promise of spending the next few days shacked up in what amounted to a hospital room was not ideal, but there was nothing else for it. Grimmjow had pushed for allowing Ichigo to be beamed to his house in the country, but he’d had to back down (ugh) when it had become clear that that just wasn’t going to happen. He hoped the bed was sturdy, anyway.

As they walked, he found himself fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket, picking at a loose thread with his thumb and forefinger. Was he actually nervous? That was ridiculous, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before… 

But that had been with his men, none of whom he’d been particularly drawn to outside of the context of _el juramento_. Ichigo wasn’t one of them; not an Arrancar, not one of his in any reality except the one inside Grimmjow’s head. He was also older than the usual age for el juramento—he was a young adult, but an adult nonetheless, not an adolescent. 

That was one reason Grimmjow was so much more attracted to him than he had been even to Ylfort, when Ylfort was newly assigned to his unit and ready to give his oath. He was a magnificently beautiful man, now, but back then he’d been barely more than a kid. Lanky; not yet fully formed. Too young to catch Grimmjow’s eye without that sweet scent directing his desire.

Ichigo, however, was in his prime. His slenderness wasn’t that of a skinny kid, but rather that of a fighter who was whipcord tough and fast as hell. So dangerous; fully trained and fully lethal. That was what Grimmjow sought in his lovers, ordinarily—strength. It attracted him even as it made him want to prove he was the stronger. Having a weakling submit to him offered no satisfaction, but having someone strong offer themselves up was such a fucking rush. 

He suspected Ichigo was one of the strongest of these Shinigami, and more than a match for any Arrancar below Espada level. But he was weakened, now, laid low as his body screamed for Grimmjow’s touch, all his strength overwhelmed by his biology. The contrast was exciting—Ichigo was a creature of many contrasts, and all of them excited Grimmjow. So strong, yet so cute. So fierce, hiding the vulnerable young man underneath. Such a fighting spirit, now unwilling and unable to fight him. 

So _good_ , too; idealistic, innocent, peace-loving—but Grimmjow had felt the jagged, hungry black and crimson swirl of his reiatsu, felt unquenchable bloodlust and an appetite for destruction that nearly matched his own.

That was the thing that drew him most to Ichigo. He wanted to see it, wanted to see what he kept buried under his layers and layers of strictures and self-denial. He wanted to peel them away the same way he wanted to strip Ichigo’s clothes off his body. He was sure whatever he uncovered would be magnificent; that it would be nightmarish and glorious. And like the rest of Ichigo, soon it would be his.

…

…

They arrived in short order, where that soft-looking but inexplicably frightening woman Unohana lurked just inside her office. 

She handed him a smallish cardboard box, indicating that it contained “Supplies.”

Then she got right up in his face and a wave of thick, menacing reiatsu broke over him, cloying and somehow sticky in a way that made him think of half-dried blood. He staggered back, breathless, pushing back as hard as he could just to avoid being forced to his knees—holy fuck, this woman was nearly as powerful as the Primera. He felt like he was drowning in her vile reiatsu; like he was in an ocean of it and it was pouring into his lungs. When he managed to look at her again, she didn’t look soft at all, but utterly terrifying. Unohana might be a healer by trade, but she was a killer at heart.

“Be good to him,” was all she said, and she didn’t even need to add anything to the effect of “or I’ll kill you” because she was radiating murderous intent like no one he’d ever seen.

“Yes, Señora, I will,” he said, because there was nothing else he could say to a show of force like that. He might be a little reckless sometimes, a little cocky, but he knew when he was that badly outclassed.

“Whatever else he may be, Ichigo Kurosaki is one of ours,” Kuchiki added from behind him, his voice impassive, devoid of emotion. 

“Allow me to make this completely explicit: if you hurt him, I’ll ask Captain Unohana to heal you after she cuts you to ribbons, and then you will get to experience Senbonzakura Kageyoshi’s billion blades one-by-one. If we don’t get through them all, well, Unohana is very good at her job.”

He didn’t know what senbon-whatever was, but just for a moment, he had an impression of a massive cloud of pink made of razor-edged flower petals, beautiful as they were deadly, swirling against the tarry red-brown backdrop of Unohana’s reiatsu. What the fuck, these guys were _monsters_. Kuchiki had to have the best reiatsu control he’d ever heard of to pull a move like that, to let him see the full magnitude of his power for only a split second.

It made him like them more, that they were willing to let their oh-so-civilized facade slip when it came to protecting their own. He could come to respect Kuchiki, he supposed. As for Unohana, there was no question—all Arrancar, the Espada especially, respected strength like that.

“I won’t hurt him,” Grimmjow said, serious as he’d ever been, “I know you guys think _el juramento_ is something is sleazy and suspicious, but like the we said, this is a trust, and I won’t betray it.”

“Good,” Unohana said, and the stifling pressure was gone. He wobbled a little at the sudden lack of it, but Unohana didn’t comment. She just smiled at him sweetly, and Grimmjow tried to not to let on that it made him want to run away and hide under a rock. “Ichigo’s room is two doors down on the right. I’ll unlock the door for you from here.”

Grimmjow departed the infirmary, fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder, and knocked on the door to Ichigo’s room before pushing it open. 

Oh, there he was, standing in the middle of the room. Gorgeous; he was gorgeous—after so long spent imagining, seeing the real version was even better than he’d anticipated. He could smell it, el juramento, hanging thickly in the air along with Ichigo’s own scent and the musky, bitter odor of sex. The combination made Grimmjow’s head spin; made his mouth water and his cock start to harden instantly.

“Don’t—“ Ichigo began, but he had to stop and swallow, licking dry lips. “Don’t think this means you have some kind of claim on me. You can leave right now if that’s what you think.”

His voice was husky, near-breathless, but nonetheless it was surprising that Ichigo could deliver an ultimatum like that right now. Grimmjow arched an eyebrow at him, impressed by Ichigo’s ability to hold it together. 

“I don’t,” he replied, and it was only half a lie. He knew in his head that he had no real claim on Ichigo, but his blood and his body were singing that Ichigo was his, his, his.

“Okay,” Ichigo said, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”

Then he lifted his eyes to meet Grimmjow’s, and a half-second later they were both in motion. Then Ichigo’s mouth was on his, kissing him ferociously, needy and hot, clinging arms wrapped around him.

Ichigo smelled so good that Grimmjow could hardly stand it. He felt almost dizzy with it as he licked into Ichigo’s mouth hungrily, relishing the feel of that lithe body melting against his, of that soft tongue curling around his, of the little sound of relief Ichigo made as he wrapped one of his legs around Grimmjow’s hips to pull him closer. Grimmjow lifted Ichigo off the ground so that he could do the same with the other, then walked them back towards the couch—there was presumably a bed around here somewhere, but finding it would have to wait. 

The most expedient thing to do would be to just turn and sit down with Ichigo on top of him, and expediency was key. He had to be inside Ichigo _yesterday_ ; one kiss and he was as aroused as he could ever remember being. Ichigo pawed at his clothing uncoordinatedly, and he’d never seen anyone this desperate, but then again, he’d never taken _el juramento_ from someone who’d been forced to wait so long. 

Grimmjow efficiently stripped them both, or as efficiently as he could with Ichigo’s hands all over him and his hips grinding incessantly against Grimmjow’s already-hard cock. 

Ichigo made a grab for it, rising up as if to guide it inside him. Grimmjow batted his hand away, and he made an utterly piteous sound, this little disconsolate whimper as if to say, “but I need it!”

Soothingly, Grimmjpw murmured, “Just a minute, _nene,_ just wait, I got to…”

He ran a hand down Ichigo’s back, dipping his fingers into the cleft of that ass he hadn’t even got to see yet, finding his hole already slick with some kind of lubricant. Ichigo moaned as he pushed a finger inside, then another—he was open enough that Grimmjow wouldn’t hurt him, Grimmjow judged, and to tease him at this point would be very cruel. 

“Mmm,” Grimmjow murmured, not really paying attention to what he was saying,  “All ready for me, aren’tcha, _dulzura_? That’s pretty hot, thinkin’ of ya fuckin’ yourself with your fingers and callin’ out my name.”

Ichigo didn’t respond except to whine in disappointment as Grimmjow removed his fingers, and Grimmjow guessed that Ichigo had no real idea what he was saying or simply didn’t care. That was okay; he didn’t mind. 

He hastily spat into his hand and slicked himself up as best he could, Unohana’s box of supplies lying forgotten on the floor. He guided Ichigo onto him, easing him down slowly, and the way Ichigo threw his head back and practically wailed with pleasure immediately displaced all previous contenders for the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Normally, Grimmjow would give him a minute to adjust, but Ichigo started moving immediately, bouncing on him shallowly, keeping Grimmjow’s dick buried nearly to the hilt in his body, letting out these lusty little cries on every stroke. Thus, he felt no compunction to hold himself still, rocking his hips up into that perfect, silky heat. 

Yes, yes, he was inside Ichigo, finally, finally, and it was better than anything he could possibly have imagined. He grabbed Ichigo’s head with both hands and pulled him down for a bruising kiss, moaning against his lips. He thrust his tongue deeply into Ichigo’s mouth, their teeth clacking together as he tried to get more of him, even as he tried to work his cock deeper still into Ichigo’s body, wanting to possess every inch of him. 

Oh, Mad Creator, he was so fucking hot inside that Grimmjow could barely stand it—it was like nothing he’d ever felt before; right on the edge of painful, but so, so good. He didn’t want to pull out any more than he had to to please Ichigo; it was so satisfying to be in him like this. So hot; so hot he couldn’t think; so hot he couldn’t do anything but try to get more, deeper.

Ichigo seemed to agree. They moved together, sharp, jerky, uncoordinated, small hitches of their hips that kept Grimmjow buried to the hilt in Ichigo’s perfect body. He could feel it twitch and spasm around him, greedy for more. Pulling Ichigo as tight to him as he could, Grimmjow bit down on the join of his neck and shoulder, fighting for self-control. The way Ichigo gasped in excitement at the sensation didn’t help him find it. 

He shifted his grip to Ichigo’s hips and lifted him up just a couple inches, holding him still as Grimmjow started fucking him in earnest. He tried for a steady rhythm, but the tight, hungry grip of Ichigo’s hole was just too good and he fucked him harder and faster than he’d meant to, head thrown back as instinct took over completely.

Ichigo moaned ecstatically, deliriously, and his hands gripped came up to grip Grimmjow’s face, forcing Grimmjow to look at him. Their gazes met and locked, leaving Grimmjow staring into Ichigo’s wide, desperate eyes. Their pupils were blown impossibly wide, just a thin ring of gold-flecked brown surrounding them, and somehow Grimmjow felt like he was being consumed by the blackness of them. He loved it; Ichigo was too far gone to talk, but his eyes said it all—don’t stop, please, don’t you ever stop. 

They widened further and Ichigo’s mouth opened in a surprised ‘o’, making him look almost frightened. Then the eyes squeezed shut and Ichigo stiffened, a loud shout escaping him. Holy shit, he was coming, just from this—Grimmjow could feel Ichigo’s cock twitching and jumping against his belly and the muscles inside of him clamping down around him, rhythmic and tight, like a hand squeezing him. He felt the tiny smear of wetness as Ichigo came, nearly dry but clearly no less intense for it. The original sharp cry faded into a long, low, moan, a little crescendo in it every time Grimmjow thrust into him, completely unable to stop or even slow down.

Ichigo was more pliant now, soft and yielding inside and out as Grimmjow shoved his hips up hard against Ichigo’s ass, grinding against him, all the way inside. Grimmjow threw his head back on a loud, wordless groan—so good, it was so _good_ , so hot and slick and silky around him; so soft and open that it felt like fucking a woman, almost. Except Ichigo’s beautiful body was so delightfully, deliciously male, all hard lines and planes and angles except for the pleasure-mad arch of his back and the jutting curve of his cock where it pressed, still hard, against Grimmjow’s belly.

He was beyond intoxicated on the sound and the sight and the smell of this. It was like taking one of Szayelapporo’s psychedelics, the ones that made reality split open at its seams to reveal the layers underneath, turning the world to the otherworld, the everyday to the beautiful, making it all feel realer than real. The flushed, sweat-slick sheen of Ichigo’s skin and his milk-chocolate-melty eyes; his swollen, bruised lips that clung to Grimmjow’s with uncoordinated desperation whenever they kissed and spilled sweet, lost sounds whenever they didn’t—all of it felt somehow unnaturally vivid, unnaturally clear, burning into his mind.

Despite the near-painful intensity, he couldn’t get enough. He thought it wouldn’t even be possible; the idea didn’t make sense—there was no “enough” of something this good, just more, more, more, more. He wanted it to never end, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to wring every ounce of pleasure out of their bodies, more-harder-faster, chasing his climax even as he tried to stave it off.

Grimmjow wanted it deeper; wanted it harder than this position would allow, and he had no doubts that that was what Ichigo wanted, too, to have as much of Grimmjow in him as he possibly could. Steeling himself for the loss by promising that it was just for a moment, he lifted Ichigo off him and directed, “Knees on the floor, body over the couch. Spread your legs for me, _dulzura_.”

He wasn’t sure if Ichigo would understand, but he did, complying eagerly if wordlessly as Grimmjow shifted around, too. Grimmjow knelt behind him, allowing himself only a moment of just looking; he didn’t want to keep Ichigo waiting, but it would be a crime not to appreciate a view like this one. Hips lifted, legs splayed—and what an ass that was, just the barest hint of plush roundness to gild its firm, masculine glory. That definitely deserved some of his attention later; he wanted to squeeze it, bite it, hold it open and stick his tongue inside. 

Ichigo turned those dark, lost eyes on him and whined questioningly, and okay, that had been more than a moment. 

“Sorry, _dulzura_ , you’re just too hot for me,” Grimmjow told him, kneeling behind him, kissing the back of his shoulders in apology. He spat on Ichigo’s hole and made it twitch, then guided himself back inside with a groan. “Too fuckin’ good, _nene_ , ya feel too fuckin’ good.” 

“Hit me or somethin’ if it’s too rough,” he continued, “I gotta fuck ya, I just hafta…” 

Ichigo made a vaguely assent shaped sound, and that was going to have to be good enough. Holding too tight onto those narrow hips, Grimmjow fucked into him roughly; harsh and hard and fast, just like he wanted to. Ichigo let out a shout; surprise, maybe? Pleasure? Whatever it was, it didn’t sound like pain, so he did it again, and again, and again, and again, and oh, fuck, _Ichigo_ …

He hadn’t known how bad he needed this, to lose himself in another’s body without holding back. Not that he was in the business of holding back, but usually he tried to have some technique, at least. Ichigo the way he was now didn’t need technique, though—he just needed to get fucked. And oh, was he magnificent at it, look at him; look at Ichigo fucking taking it, taking Grimmjow’s dick like a goddamn pro and loving every second of it, finally getting what he’d been craving for so long.

Grimmjow somewhat regretted that he couldn’t see Ichigo’s face like this, to watch the pleasure on it, but he had a pretty damn good view nonetheless—the long, arcing sweep of Ichigo’s back and the jutting wings of his shoulder blades were utterly beautiful, far better than any work of art Grimmjow had ever seen. So much of pale and unblemished skin; no dark circle of an _agujero_ to mar him… 

And then there was the fact that he could watch his own cock disappear into Ichigo’s body, over and over. Hottest fuckin’ thing he’d ever seen, he swore… It was stupid that such a repetitive sight could be so intensely arousing, but it was. Oh, Mad Creator, it was; each time, he could only look for a minute or so before he had to look away, the eroticism of the sight threatening what little control he had left. He was hanging on, but he wasn’t going to last much longer. He had to make Ichigo come again before that; though; he just had to.

“Looks so good,” Grimmjow panted, talking to distract himself from how much he needed to come. “Wish ya could see, dulzura. I bed you’d like that, huh? Gettin’ ta see my dick movin' in and out o’ this hot little ass? Gettin' ta see me fuckin’ ya? It looks so fuckin’ hot, the way yer hole just keeps suckin’ me in like it don’t wanna let me go.”

Ichigo groaned a long, incoherent string of consonants, by way of response, which told Grimmjow that although he wasn’t saying much, he could and did understand.

Helpless to his body’s demands, his world soaked in Ichigo’s intoxicating scent, Grimmjow couldn’t help but give it to him a little faster. He didn’t want to come yet, but he couldn’t stop; couldn’t slow down if his life depended on it.  

Ichigo cried out at the crest of each stroke; his high, ecstatic shouts strung together with incoherent moans. Grimmjow felt like he could get off just from the sounds Ichigo was making; it was addictive, each time he got him to yell a little louder, it just made him want more. Grimmjow wanted to make him _scream._  

He bent over Ichigo and held him tightly with one arm, bracing the other one on the couch and lifting Ichigo’s torso up some, so instead of the ninety-degree bend at his hips, he was strung out over a wide angle. His back clung to Grimmjow’s chest, sweat-slick and fever-hot. A nice bonus was the way he could kiss and bite at Ichigo’s salty shoulder, but he only did it for a minute because he had to slow way down and go easier to do it.

“Let’s see…” Grimmjow muttered, rocking into Ichigo in this new position. He only got a little moan, so, “No…” 

He shifted, hoping that Ichigo’s body was the same as any Arrancar male’s in this regard. Well, he’d find out soon.

But the next thrust got him a sharp gasp, so he suspected it was. Almost, just a little lower…

“Fuck!” Ichigo cried, and Grimmjow grinned against his neck, thoroughly pleased. He’d made him say a word! 

Now that he had figured that out, Grimmjow resumed his quick, sharp pace, pressing up against that same spot, over and over. 

Breathless moans quickly escalated into long, high cries, and it wasn’t quite a scream, but it was damn close. Oh, he could still… but he needed both hands for this…

“Can ya hold yourself up, _nene?_ So I can touch your pretty cock?”

Ichigo shook his head.

“Don’t,” he panted, his voice thick, “This… Perfect.”

“Okay,”  Grimmjow soothed, “Okay, _dulzura_ , whatever ya want. Ya gonna come again? Just from this?”

Ichigo nodded, his bright hair bobbing cutely. “Yeah, yeah, _Grimmjow_.”

Fuck. Heat spiked up from his dick through his belly at the sound of Ichigo saying his name like that; he hadn’t even been sure of how aware Ichigo was of who he was, but he knew, shit, he knew who it was that was fucking him, knew who was making him moan like a _pequeña puta…_

“Say it again,” Grimmjow growled.

“Grimm-m-jow,” Ichigo moaned, his voice breaking over a sharp thrust in the middle, and it should have sounded ridiculous, should have come off as theatrical and fake, like something from a low budget porn movie, but he knew that this was the real thing, this was what all the dirty movies tried to emulate, and it was impossibly erotic to hear.

“Close,” Ichigo gasped. “You too?”

“Yeah,” Grimmjow replied, and he was. Ichigo was just too much. “Shit, yeah.”

“Wanna feel,” Ichigo panted, his words broken up by gasps and moans and pauses for breath. “You first. Come… inside…”

Way too fucking much. Grimmjow laughed brokenly and said, “Like I’m gonna say no to that.”

He sped up to the desperate, unsustainable pace they both wanted, but that he’d held back from for fear of making himself come. It was so good, so good; he couldn’t remember this ever feeling so good, and it was a fucking miracle he hadn’t come yet. He’d been holding back so hard for so long, and now he couldn’t quite…

Then Ichigo moaned his name again and he felt his whole body flush hot as his orgasm hit him. He clutched Ichigo tightly, biting down on his shoulder to muffle a shout, hips jerking hard as he started to come, spilling like a flood into Ichigo’s body.

“Feel that?” he managed, breathless, and shit, this just _kept going._ “Comin’ in ya; fuck, so much…”

“Yes!” Ichigo cried ecstatically, “Grimmjow, yes—”

The blinding pleasure starting to recede, Grimmjow straightened a little and fucked into Ichigo hard, keeping to the angle he liked so well. They were both moaning deliriously; it was too good, he was so sensitive that it almost hurt, the hot wetness of his own spend nearly scalding him. Now, he could hear himself fucking Ichigo; the sound of it wonderfully nasty.

Ichigo went rigid and came with something very like a scream, bucking back against him, squeezing him so impossibly tight.

“Ichigo,” Grimmjow murmured, “Ichigo, _dulzura_ , that’s right, come for me, let it go, let it all go…

A moment later, Ichigo sagged in his grip with one last groan, spent. Grimmjow allowed himself to collapse atop him, just for a minute while they got their breath back. 

That… that had been fucking spectacular. He stroked Ichigo’s side in a long caress, sighing happily—Ichigo had to be one of the sexiest people he’d ever laid eyes on, and to have the sweet scent of _el juramento_ driving him on on top of that…

After a moment, Ichigo started wriggling under him and Grimmjow heaved himself up, carefully withdrawing. Ichigo looked back over his shoulder, and Grimmjow wished desperately he could take a picture of his face right now. Half lidded eyes, flushed cheeks and mussed, sweat-damp hair; his bruised lips turned up in a cheeky smile. 

“That all you got, great Espada?” Ichigo asked. 

Grimmjow laughed in disbelief. Ichigo wanted _more_? After _that_? 

“Where’s your bed?” Grimmjow asked, not one to back down from a challenge. 

Ichigo grinned wider and struggled up onto the couch to sprawl on it, turning around to look at Grimmjow properly. Breathtaking; Ichigo was literally breathtaking—Grimmjow loved that the flush had spread down his chest, loved the sheen of sweat making each perfect muscle group glisten; loved the way he was staring back at Grimmjow just as hungrily. Ichigo lifted a hand and pointed towards a folding screen that Grimmjow now saw partitioned the room into two. “Over there.”

Right. Grimmjow got to his feet, and as soon as he made sure his knees were in no danger of buckling—that had been so fucking good; it would be no surprise if he had jelly legs—scooped Ichigo up off the couch and carried him to the bed. He was warm and heavy and a little damp in Grimmjow’s arms; a pleasing weight. He liked the feeling of carrying Ichigo off to have his way with him (again.)

“Hey!” Ichigo protested, but that was all he managed, and it was clearly just for form’s sake. There was no flailing, no threats, no blows—he liked being carried, it seemed. Either that or he had no desire to walk even as far as the bed, which would also not be terribly surprising just now.

Grimmjow tossed him down on the bed and he landed with a ‘whumph’ and a bounce, which was oddly satisfying. Once he’d stabilized, Ichigo relaxed, his hands behind his head and the insides of his splayed thighs glistening—he had to know what he was doing, showing himself off like that. His expression was more challenge than come-hither, though it certainly was both. 

Nothing else for it but to crawl on top of him and kiss him. Ichigo responded eagerly, if not so harsh and desperate as earlier. This kiss was softer than the ones that had come before, slow and sweet and slick. Ichigo writhed happily underneath him, rubbing the whole lengths of their bodies together, still hungry for contact. Grimmjow needed one hand to prop himself up, but he let the other one go exploring, touching everywhere he could reach, all that smooth skin over such a firm, slender frame. His caresses were returned twofold, with Ichigo’s hands skimming over his back and sides, trying to learn the cartography of his body. 

Curious fingers played over the back rim of his _agujero,_ trailing strange, prickly sensations in their wake. Grimmjow could never quite decide if he liked being touched there or not, nor even whether it was painful or pleasant. There was something strangely raw about it, like Ichigo was touching a wound of some kind. But it felt good, too; the kind of sensitive that made him want to gasp and twitch when Ichigo’s fingers stroked the inner wall of it. It was strange, but definitely a little arousing. 

Ichigo seemed caught up in his explorations of the ways Grimmjow’s body was alien to him, breaking away from their kiss to tongue the skin just around his _mascarita._ That was unquestionably enjoyable—there was no feeling in the bone plate itself, of course, but there was in the skin that adjoined it, especially the few millimeters of delicate skin that was protected from the elements because it was actually underneath the edge of the _mascarita_. Ichigo figured this out quickly, his tongue venturing under the bone plate to stroke the unweathered skin beneath, drawing a pleased hum from Grimmjow.

Ichigo’s unbroken face and lack of _agujero_ intrigued Grimmjow just as much. The lack of a _mascarita_ , especially, should have made Ichigo look plain, Grimmjow thought; as if he was missing the proper adornment. Instead, it only called attention to the strength and symmetry of his features.

Ichigo’s face was a little too sharp, his nose too pointed and his chin a little too narrow for him to be classically handsome, and he wasn’t girly-boy pretty, either, although from the right angle he was close. Ichigo’s face had an angular meanness; it was a face that fierce concentration would look at home on; a face made for battle. 

The best part, though, was the way his cruel affect was softened by his warm eyes and his soft, sensual mouth. Ichigo’s face wasn’t made for smiles, but that was why they looked so good on him. Contradictory; that’s what Ichigo was. 

Grimmjow ducked away abruptly, realizing he’d been staring at Ichigo’s face for a good ten seconds. Heat crept up his neck to his cheeks and tips of his ears, and he decided he’d better do something to distract Ichigo from this fact, and quick. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques did not blush, and if by chance he did, he certainly wouldn’t let anyone see it. Not even—or perhaps especially not—his lovers.

He began kissing his way down Ichigo’s body, lips and tongue dragging wetly over warm and salt-tasting skin. Ichigo had hair on his chest—not a ton, but some—which was another way he differed from an Arrancar man. It was a novelty for Grimmjow, and he nosed at it, enjoying its curly texture. Grimmjow understood the necessity for pubic hair and even hair under the arms, but why on the chest? It seemed silly. It was so sparse that it couldn’t provide much warmth…

Well, whatever. Not everything about the body had to make sense. As a matter of fact, his next destination was another nonsensical thing.

Grimmjow’s mouth closed over one of Ichigo’s nipples, his teeth scraping over the areola to grasp the small bud in the center, making Ichigo gasp and arch underneath him. He set to; flicking his tongue over it, sucking, nibbling, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure Ichigo made and the light skritch of his fingernails through Grimmjow’s hair. 

Ichigo seemed especially sensitive here, or perhaps it was just his general state of excitement that made him so responsive. Grimmjow withdrew, watching Ichigo’s face as he scraped his thumbnail ever so lightly over the nipple, over and over—Ichigo had his eyes shut and his lip caught between his teeth, and every stroke of Grimmjow’s finger drew out a tiny whimper. Every whimper, in turn, sent a flush of arousal effervescing up through Grimmjow’s body, sparking over his skin. Smiling to himself evilly, he carefully lowered his mouth to the other nipple, trying not to give the game away to Ichigo; trying not to give him any advance warning. 

He bit down sharply and Ichigo cried out, his hips bucking up off the bed. Grimmjow laughed, pleased, but then Ichigo opened hazy eyes to look down at him and his amusement faded away, eclipsed by desire.

“Grimmjow,” Ichigo murmured, his gaze unfocused, his eyebrows tipped up in the middle, his lips bruised and so very red. “More…”

Fuck, just _look_ at him. He was the most indecent thing Grimmjow had ever seen. Grimmjow’s worries about managing another round so soon were all for naught—he could be way more tired than this; hell, he could be _dead_ and that cute, needy face would arouse him utterly and instantly. 

“Yeah, _dulzura_ , I’ll give ya more,” Grimmjow promised. This time, he gave plenty of warning, opening his mouth over Ichigo’s nipple, sucking and licking it until was a stiff little peak before he closed his teeth around it and bit down, lightly at first, then harder, harder, until Ichigo let out a long, low moan. 

Keeping the pressure on with his teeth, he lashed the small bud with his tongue. Ichigo’s moan rose in pitch until it was more of a keening sound, and his hips were rolling ceaselessly, his cock sliding stickily along Grimmjow’s belly. It was so hard…

Not that Grimmjow was any less so, by this point. He contemplated skipping the intervening steps of his plan that had originally been meant to buy time, but the anticipation was sweet, and watching Ichigo need him so much was even sweeter. Was it cruel to tease, when Ichigo was in such a state? Maybe so, but no one ever said Grimmjow was a nice guy.

He began to make his way down Ichigo’s body, leaving his reddened, stiff nipples behind with some regret. Ichigo was so responsive to being touched there; Grimmjow could easily play with him for hours. Ichigo wouldn’t stand for that, though, he didn’t think, but that was a problem with an easy solution: Grimmjow would just have to tie him up first. What a vision he would be, desperately aroused and spitting mad, trapped and at Grimmjow’s mercy. 

Not that he wasn’t at Grimmjow’s mercy right now, if in a slightly different way. It looked like Ichigo had ‘desperately aroused’ covered, too, actually. His dick was outstandingly hard, flushed rosy and leaking clear fluid. Grimmjow leaned closer and gave it a long lick, his enjoyment of which was impeded by the fact that he almost got his eye poked out, Ichigo’s hips jerked so hard. 

“Sorry,” Ichigo gasped, but he looked more amused than anything.  

Grimmjow just raised an eyebrow and settled firm hands on Ichigo’s narrow hips, which was no great hardship—he liked the way the spurs of his hipbones felt under his palms. Trying again, he licked up the underside of Ichigo’s cock, then again, a little to one side, and again, a little to the other. 

Ichigo was practically vibrating under his touch, and he gasped loudly when Grimmjow kissed the head of his dick, right over the slit. This was too fucking fun—he brushed a few more light, teasing kisses over it, each resulting in an eminently pleasing little cry, then let go of one hip to cup Ichigo’s balls, gently massaging and fondling them. 

It didn’t get as much reaction as he’d been expecting, just a low, soft groan—perhaps Ichigo wasn’t as sensitive here as he himself was, or perhaps it was that Shinigami weren’t as sensitive here as Arrancar men. Ichigo did seem to like the touch, though, his eyes drifting closed on a sigh of pleasure as Grimmjow’s fingers scratched lightly through the curly orange hair there. 

Sliding his hand back up to Ichigo’s hip to keep him in place, Grimmjow flicked his tongue over the head of Ichigo’s cock, lapping at the slit there, gathering up a drop or two of slick pre-come on the tip of his tongue and smearing it around. Ichigo whined, and one of his hands threaded its way into Grimmjow’s hair, pushing down on him a little as an unsubtle hint.

Starting to get impatient, huh? Good. Ichigo was going to have to ask nicer than that, though, if he wanted Grimmjow to do something. 

After a moment spent toying with the frenulum under the head of Ichigo’s dick (gasp) and another spent kissing his way down to the base (impatient groan), Grimmjow decided he’d introduce another method into his campaign to make Ichigo crazy. He bet he could get him to make all kinds of noises with a couple fingers inside him…

He recalled the box of supplies that Unohana had given him, groaning inwardly when he realized it was in the other room. He gave Ichigo’s inner thigh a quick kiss and stood, telling him he’d right back.

Ah, there it was, and yes, he saw upon opening it, it contained a large bottle of lubricant—not the medical kind, which was not ideal for sex, but a familiar brand commonly sold in Las Noches. The same one, actually, that he had in the overnight bag he had brought with him, which was also discarded just inside the door. That was nice of them, to send someone to buy some. The thought of that little Yamada guy wandering a city entirely alien to him in search of better lube was more than a little funny.

As Grimmjow turned to go back to the bedroom, he heard a soft sound from that direction—a stifled moan. Naughty Ichigo, Grimmjow thought with a grin, continuing without him. That merited some punishment, for sure.

When caught sight of Ichigo, he almost tripped over his own feet on the way back to bed.  Arousal surged through his body like a breaking wave, the simultaneous urges to grab Ichigo’s hands and pin them over his head while he fucked him (because part of him didn’t want Ichigo to come unless it was on Grimmjow’s dick) and to grab his own cock and jerk off watching Ichigo momentarily paralyzing him with indecision. 

“Stop that,” Grimmjow commanded, with all the authority he could muster.

Ichigo not only stopped but also drew in a sharp breath and looked up at him guiltily; bitten-lip shyly. Oh, _interesting._ Seeing something in Ichigo’s eyes that he’d encountered before, he quickly revised his plan. He’d see how far he could go with this, now. His intentions to tease Ichigo into incoherence with his mouth and fingers could wait.

“Ya should’ve waited for me to come back,” Grimmjow told him, delivering the words in the same cool tone he might use to reprimand one of his subordinates. “I’m disappointed.”

“I’m sorry,” Ichigo said, his eyes lowered. His cock twitched violently as Grimmjow watched. 

Grimmjow suppressed a shark-like grin—he’d guessed rightly. “Sit up; on your knees.”

Ichigo complied wordlessly, telling Grimmjow that he was 100% on board with this little game. It was unexpected— _el juramento_ didn’t elicit submission in quite this way. The desire Grimmjow could read in every line of his body was all Ichigo. 

It was always the ones who couldn’t follow orders who got off on being ordered around, so that didn’t surprise him, but he’d thought Ichigo would be too proud to show it. He must be, then, too aroused to care about his pride. Oh, Grimmjow was learning all kinds of fun things today.

“You’ve been bad, haven’t ya?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ichigo admitted. 

“Say it,” Grimmjow hissed, excited by Ichigo’s submission.

“I… I’ve been bad,” Ichigo answered, his cheeks flaming, not looking at Grimmjow. It was immensely pleasing; flattering, even, that Ichigo would let Grimmjow see this side of him. Just like Grimmjow had unconsciously come to think of Ichigo as one of his, Ichigo had apparently come to trust him.

Grimmjow asked, “How so?”

“I should have waited,” Ichigo answered, eyes still downcast. 

“What did you do instead?” Grimmjow pressed.

“Started to… jerk off,” Ichigo said.

Grimmjow drew in a calming breath through his nose. He was so fucking hard right now.

“It only woulda been a minute,” Grimmjow said with a sigh, shaking his head sadly. “Then I would have come back and touched you myself. But since ya like to do it yerself, yer gonna to give me a little show. Lie back down.”

Ichigo did, obviously excited by the prospect. Grimmjow hoped the poor kid wasn’t going to hyperventilate. 

“Pay attention,” Grimmjow demanded, and Ichigo looked up at him with those dark, hungry eyes.

“If ya make yerself come, I won’t fuck ya ’til tomorrow,” Grimmjow told him, lying through his teeth. “Remember that. Ya can tell me if ya get too close. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo agreed breathlessly, “Alright.”

“Hold out yer hand, whichever one yer gonna use.”

Ichigo did, and Grimmjow squirted a dollop of lube onto Ichigo’s hand. 

“Now wrap yer hand around yer dick,” Grimmjow told him. “Get it all slippery, then stop.”

Ichigo groaned in relief at the touch of his hand as he smeared the slippery gel over himself, but he looked almost pained when he forced his hand still. 

“Stroke it for me,” Grimmjow ordered, hoping he still sounded stern and not as breathless as he felt. Having someone as strong and as gorgeous as Ichigo obeying his every command was heady beyond what he’d expected. His cock felt heavy and obscene; so swollen with blood that it was throbbing. “Nice an’ slow.”

Ichigo moaned loudly as he started to rub his cock, thrusting up into his grip. 

“Fuck, yeah,” he muttered, unable to help himself. “Spread yer legs a little wider.”

He did, and Grimmjow bit his lip, watching. He wanted to be closer, so he knelt on the bed, one knee on either side of one of Ichigo’s thighs, upright so that he towered over him. Ichigo’s eyes, which had been closed, opened to fix on Grimmjow’s cock with a needy moan.

He stroked it a couple times then let his hand go still around the base, holding the foreskin back and pointing his dick in the general direction of Ichigo’s mouth. “Ya want somethin’?”

Ichigo nodded, panting noisily, sweat dampening the hair at his temples. 

This time Grimmjow couldn’t fight back the sharp smile. “Ask me for it. Ask me nice.”

Ichigo licked his lips. “I… I want to suck it.”

Grimmjow laughed, so very pleased with the situation. “That ain’t askin’. And ya didn’t say what ya wanna suck.”

Ichigo groaned through clenched teeth, closing his eyes, his back arching as he pressed up harder into his hand. So he did have some pride left, after all, huh? Good. Grimmjow liked that he wasn’t going to beg so easily. He’d give in, though, and soon. “Slower. Yer doin’ it too fast.”

Ichigo’s distressed groan as he forced himself to slow down was so hot that Grimmjow couldn’t resist giving himself a couple more strokes. His hiss of pleasure caught Ichigo’s attention and he opened his eyes to watch Grimmjow’s hand on his dick, whimpering in desire when a drop of pre-come came out. 

“Please!” Ichigo blurted, his eyes squeezed shut tight, “Please let me suck your dick.”

The surge of arousal the words produced was so intense that for a moment Grimmjow thought he was going to come, right then and there. “Aw, yeah, _nene_ ; you can suck it. Get on the floor—on your knees, _mi ramera._ ”

Grimmjow’s pulse was pounding in his neck, in his temples, in his cock as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. His skin felt hot, or cold, or something, and his brain was hazy with how much he loved this. Ichigo knelt between his legs, his hand still wrapped around his cock. 

“Hands behind your back,” Grimmjow said, a sadistic smile on his lips. “Or ya can’t have it.”

The sound Ichigo made was something like a sob, but he complied; he—fuck— _obeyed._ Grimmjow grabbed a fistful of his hair with one hand, the other still wrapped around the base of his cock.

“C’mere,” Grimmjow muttered as he tugged Ichigo closer. “C’mere and let me feed ya this dick.”

Ichigo came willingly, gasping quietly—probably at the pain of Grimmjow pulling his hair, but Grimmjow didn’t care about that just now. “Open your mouth.”

Ichigo opened wide and Grimmjow lifted his hips, the hand around his cock guiding it into Ichigo’s mouth. 

“Yeah,” he groaned shakily, “ _Yeah_ …”

Ichigo’s mouth was so fucking hot inside, so wet and soft. Grimmjow was so hard, and he loved the way those plush lips and that velvety tongue felt against his stiff cock. It felt amazing—he was so turned on, so excited by Ichigo’s submission that he felt dizzy with it. He barely had enough restraint left to keep from grabbing Ichigo’s head and shoving his dick down his throat, but somehow he managed to limit himself to rocking his hips a little, fucking Ichigo’s mouth shallowly, once, twice, before falling still. “Suck it, _pequeña puta_ , show me how much you want my dick.”

Ichigo moaned around him; the vibration of it sending a shiver up his spine. He hastily took Grimmjow as deep into his mouth as he could, the head of his cock nudging Ichigo’s palate. Grimmjow groaned through clenched teeth as Ichigo started to pull off, sucking hard. Ichigo feel into a quick, hungry rhythm, fucking his mouth down on Grimmjow’s dick over and over, hard and fast.

He’d take this over finesse any day.  Oh, fuck, yes, he would—the combination of Ichigo’s fever-hot mouth and the way he was _sucking_ was impossibly fucking good. And he couldn’t stop moaning, his whole body was rocking and writhing as if fucking the air in front of him could get him some satisfaction—Grimmjow had never had anybody that excited about sucking him off before and he found it ridiculously erotic.

Grimmjow flopped back against the bed with a groan, half-disbelieving, an arm flung over his face, hiding his eyes—he couldn’t look at Ichigo lips stretched around his dick anymore. That, along with how noisy he was being, was kind of ruining the whole air of command thing he had going for a little while, but that had done its job, turning them both on the the point of desperation. The way Ichigo had just gone with it still puzzled him, but he wasn’t going to stop him to ask questions now.

He really didn’t want to make Ichigo stop for any reason, but he was going to have to sooner rather than later if he didn’t want to come like this. Which he actually did, honestly, but that was too much of a dick move even for him, with Ichigo needing it so bad.

Just a little more. Just a little more of that sweet mouth and then he’d give Ichigo what he really wanted. He propped himself up on his elbows to look down at Ichigo and carded his fingers through his soft hair, petting him. “Slow down for me, _nene_ —make it nice and slow and messy for me. Get it wet; get my dick all wet. 

Ichigo made a noise of assent and slowed his movements. Grimmjow’s head lolled back. as he groaned out a curse—fuck, that was good. Why had he thought this would make it easier to hold out? Had he forgotten that this was his complete fucking favorite? Now that Ichigo had slowed down, it became all the more apparent how awesome he was at the sucking aspect of sucking dick. And he could take it deeper, too, now that he wasn’t focused on doing it hard and fast. He gasped, surprised—Ichigo had more attention to spare for what to do with his tongue, too. Ah, fuck—what _was_ he doing with his tongue…? Whatever it was, it felt fucking great.

Grimmjow bit his lip as the head of his cock bumped the back of Ichigo’s throat, his eyes going wide in surprise as Ichigo didn’t ease off but kept pressing forward, trying to take Grimmjow into his throat. This was an awkward position for that, and Ichigo gagged and had to pull back. It made his mouth flood with saliva, though, so Grimmjow wasn’t disappointed—he loved it wet like this. Not all guys did, he knew, but he was pretty sure they were just wrong. Friction was all well and good, but nothing beat hot and slippery.

The next time Ichigo tried to deep-throat him, he succeeded. Grimmjow gasped, seizing a handful of Ichigo’s hair—he was wrong, something did beat hot and slippery. Hot, slippery and insanely tight was definitely better; oh, oh, _fuck_ — Ichigo could only manage it for a few seconds, which was just as well. He had to pull off completely, choking and sputtering. This seemed like as good of an opportunity as any to move this along, better even, perhaps. If Ichigo started sucking him again, Grimmjow wasn’t sure he could bring himself to make him stop.

He cupped Ichigo’s cheek, stroking his face with his thumb, and Ichigo pushed into the touch, catlike.

  “That was real fuckin’ good, _dulzura_ ,” Grimmjow murmured. Ichigo was a mess; he’d really choked himself, tears in his eyes and everything. He wiped them away as he kept petting Ichigo’s face, gentling him. Ichigo looked up at him, so dazed that Grimmjow actually felt a bit bad for delaying for so long. 

“Grimmjow…” Ichigo breathed. Then he blinked and shook his head, seeming to collect his thoughts a bit. His voice was rough, but only a little vague. Also, he sounded kind of peeved. “Are you _finally_ going to fuck me now?” 

“I’mma do just that. How—” 

He’d almost asked ‘How do you want it?’ but cut himself off. Ichigo didn’t look like he wanted to think even that much right now, and Grimmjow didn’t want to totally destroy the theme they had going. Instead, he got to his feet and hauled Ichigo up off the floor and onto the bed. He helped a little, thankfully—it was an unusually tall bed, at least to Grimmjow’s eye. That made it just the right height for what he wanted to do. 

He stood by the side of the bed and tugged Ichigo forward so that his hips were right on the edge, then lifted Ichigo’s (really very nice) legs to his shoulders so that his hips were up off the bed a little, just where Grimmjow wanted them to be. Ichigo gasped as Grimmjow’s dick rubbed over his sticky, still-wet hole. Grimmjow was going to get to be in there in just a second; Ichigo had it right; fucking _finally_.

He quickly slicked up his cock and pressed the head of it against Ichigo’s opening; gasped when he felt it twitch under the pressure. He was done teasing both of them, though, and he pushed forward, sinking inside easily. 

Ichigo whimpered and his voice came out high and tight as he panted, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah—fuck me now, don’t wait, fuck me now, Grimmjow, _Grimmjow_!”

He didn’t need telling twice. Grimmjow took hold of Ichigo’s hips and held him still, thrusting into him hard enough that the slap of skin on skin was loud in his ears. 

“Fast,” Ichigo demanded, “C’mon, give it to me.”

Who was he to deny Ichigo what he wanted? Grimmjow set the pace as quick as he could, watching as Ichigo’s back arched and he cried out, so loud there was nothing to call it but a scream. It felt incredible; just what he wanted, hot and slick and tight, and yeah, Ichigo was right, fast was good, fast was real fuckin’ good…

“Shit, I’m not gonna last like this,” Grimmjow gasped. Not after that spectacular half a blowjob. Not after watching Ichigo just submit to whatever Grimmjow wanted him to do.

“You don’t need to,” Ichigo promised, practically wailing “Don’t hold back… just—ah!—fuck me!”

“Touch yourself,” Grimmjow demanded, although it came out mostly as a gasp, because when he’d said he wasn’t going to last, he meant it—he felt like his eyes were going to roll back in his head, this was so good.

Ichigo wrapped his hand around his dick and started stripping it as fast as he could, panting, each exhale coming out as an ‘Ah!”, each louder and higher than the last.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted, all in a rush, the words running together, gasping quick breaths between phrases. “Harder, Grimmjow, make me come, oh God, make me come, I’m so close. I’m so close, so close, fuck, please, c’mon, come _on—”_

Grimmjow turned his head and bit down on Ichigo’s calf, eyes squeezed shut, fucking into Ichigo as hard and fast as he could, trying desperately to hang on long enough to give him that little bit more he needed. 

“—yes, yes, close, yes, c’mon, yes, c’mon—“

Shit, he couldn’t... Ichigo, _Ichigo—_

 His hand on Ichigo’s ankle tightened and he pressed his face against his leg, mouth open as he sucked in one more breath and then—

Ichigo screamed, his back locking into an impossible arch, his toes right beside Grimmjow’s face curling tightly, coming so hard it looked like it hurt, his cock spurting sticky-white over his belly.

Grimmjow needed to kiss him more than he’d ever needed anything in his life. He slipped Ichigo’s legs off his shoulders and fell on him, still fucking him with hard, desperate jerks of his hips as he crashed their mouths together because Ichigo was his, his, his, his—

He cried out against Ichigo’s lips, coming, coming inside him, coming inside his Ichigo, his _dulzura._ Ichigo’s hands were locked on either side of his face, holding him tight, holding them tight together, both of them making small, soft noises as they rocked together, as Grimmjow spilled himself into Ichigo’s body. 

The stayed like that for what felt like a long time, their bodies flexing, pulsing, synchronized to each other as they gradually slowed. Eventually their kiss decelerated to its natural conclusion, and Grimmjow leaned his forehead against Ichigo’s as he tried to catch his breath. Another moment passed like that, during which he became aware of Ichigo’s legs wrapped around his back, clutching him close. That made him smile, and he propped himself up on his hands to grin down at Ichigo, who looked up at him with an expression that Grimmjow could only suppose was just as dopey as his own. 

He wanted to say something, but he had no idea what. ‘That was awesome’ seemed obvious to the point of inanity, as well as an understatement unless you took the word in its more literal meaning. ‘How about those simultaneous orgasms, huh?’ seemed equally pointless, as there was nothing anyone could say that would improve upon the actual experience. 

Ichigo uncurled himself from around Grimmjow with a groan—it was a good choice, Grimmjow thought. A groan was really all there was to say. He looked sleepy and satisfied, or so Grimmjow certainly hoped. 

“That better?” Grimmjow asked as he began his part of their disentanglement. 

“Oh, fuck yes. I feel great! Can we go to sleep now, though?” Ichigo answered with a yawn. 

Grimmjow couldn’t agree more. He also felt great and wanted to go to sleep now. He hated the idea of waking up covered in flakes of dried lube and come, though, and he knew it would be even worse for Ichigo. Looking around, he spotted the bathroom.

“In a minute,” he said, answering Ichigo’s question, and padded off to facilitate clean-up. His legs felt notably wobbly, this time. Ichigo probably couldn’t even stand up right now. 

After cleaning himself up, he wet a towel for Ichigo and gave it to him, then went off to get his duffel bag and give him a moment’s privacy. When he returned, he had to chuckle at Ichigo, who appeared to be asleep with the towel still in his hand. Cute; he was so damn cute sometimes. 

“Oi,” Grimmjow said. “Wake up. Yer gettin’ the bed wet with that towel.”

“Leamme alone,” Ichigo grumbled, holding the towel up in his general direction. “You’d think you get off on bossing me around or something.”

Grimmjow had to chuckle at that as he collected the towel, tossing it into the bathroom so that it would only seep water onto the apparently non-porous floor there.

“Ya listened, didn’t ya? Ya’d think ya get off on bein’ bossed around,” he countered.

“Aha!” Ichigo proclaimed, holding up a finger as he wriggled around, trying to get under the covers with the minimum possible effort and ending up making it harder than it needed to be. “But I have an excuse! _El juramento,_ yanno. _You_ , on the other hand, are just a sadist.”

“A sadist gets off on causin’ pain and distress, not bossin’ people around,” Grimmjow remarked mildly, not commenting on whether any part of Ichigo’s statement was true or false.

He smiled to himself as he got into bed and fumbled around trying to figure out how to turn off the light. He was glad to have his puzzle solved—Ichigo thought he had a free pass on acting like a kinky little slut without revealing himself to be, as an actual matter of fact, a kinky little slut. Grimmjow probably ought to tell him that that wasn’t quite how _el juramento_ worked… 

If you didn’t like to be dominated, you still wouldn’t like it, even during el juramento. You’d want to get fucked, and that was either culturally or naturally coded (depending on who you asked) as a kind of domination, but it wouldn’t magically make you get off on being told you’d been a bad, bad boy and needed to be punished. 

Grimmjow’s teeth gleamed whitely in the dark as he snuggled—yes, snuggled, even he was allowed to snuggle after sex that good—up against Ichigo’s back. He wouldn’t correct Ichigo’s misconception yet. He’d let it ride until… Oh, right before he left, he thought. After Ichigo revealed himself to be an even bigger kinky little slut, as Grimmjow knew he would. He wouldn’t want to make him shy, after all. Whatever helped him shake his inhibitions could only make this time together better.

And, if Ichigo would be even more embarrassed and horrified at his behavior then, when Grimmjow finally told him, well… Ichigo hadn’t been wrong about one thing. He _was_ a bit of a sadist.

Grimmjow fell asleep with his smile pressed to Ichigo’s hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Week On El Juramento:  
> The _juramento_ continues. Ichigo has issues and a conversation with Grimmjow.


	8. Sapper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. AKA welcome back to the Ichigo Kurosaki emotional rollercoaster. Please keep your hands, feet, and other miscellaneous body parts inside the vehicle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!! EJ has passed 1000 hits! Thank you, thank you, minna-san! : D
> 
> Please bear with me for some brief (...) reflections.
> 
> I know I promised you guys a shower scene this chapter, but I decided to split it up due to concerns of length, as well as stylistic and narrative concerns. I actually completely rewrote the shower scene about five times because Ichigo and Grimmjow kept refusing to make out *just a little bit* in the shower, the way I had originally intended, and I kept deleting the ensuing smut because it felt gratuitous (seeing as the chapter after that has a lot of sex, too). 
> 
> BUT this story has grown a lot in revision, there's more actual worldbuilding/plot/character development (i.e. not smut) in the first six chapters, and it's planned to go on longer than originally intended after Ichigo's recovery because it has become as much a story about Ichigo trying to be happy and okay and at peace with himself as it is a story about Ichigo and Grimmjow getting together. Therefore, I think I can include an extra few thousand words of smut without making it feel unbalanced. 
> 
> (ALSO this is fanfiction, so perhaps gratuitous smut is not a bad thing.)
> 
> The shower chapter is mostly ready, but I'm going to be pretty busy this week and weekend so unfortunately you will have to wait the full week for your wet, naked, slippery I/G goodness.

Mmm… Ichigo was warm. He hadn’t been warm in a while, he thought, and it was nice. There was someone in bed with him, wrapped up around his back, and that was nice, too—he’d been so lonely, so touch-starved. He wasn’t now, this was a veritable feast of touch. A buffet. A chance to glut himself to a truly obscene degree, making up for lost time. He sighed, luxuriating in the contact, pressing back a little more firmly. Skin to skin, all over, with nothing in between—his bedmate’s firm chest pressed against his back made him feel cozy and safe. His bedmate’s hips, complete with the soft weight that went with the firm chest and confirmed his bedmate’s maleness, were snugged up against Ichigo’s ass, the feeling of it startlingly intimate.

This was so nice. He wanted to stay like this forever, half-awake and warm and naked, wrapped up in someone’s arms. Things didn’t get much better than that. He hadn’t realized until just now how much he’d missed this, this simple pleasure of contact.  There was something pointy poking into the back of his neck, though, and that was uncomfortable. Next to the pointy thing, it was warm and humid, like this person was breathing on him. 

Maybe he should roll over so the pointy thing wasn’t poking him. If he rolled over, he could kiss his bedmate awake, too. He was kind of hard, he noticed. Well, it was, after all, morning. His bedmate was, too, though only a little bit. Morning sex? Maybe. Ichigo liked morning sex. He liked afternoon sex, too, though, and nighttime sex, so there was no hurry. Anything like that would involve moving, anyway, and that was less than appealing. So vigorous, with all that thrusting and whatnot. Maybe later. He just shifted his head away from whatever was poking him, instead, which made a possessive arm curl tighter around his waist. 

Grimmjow. He was in bed with Grimmjow, he realized, as he unwillingly woke up a little more and the memory of yesterday and last night came to him. Looking for Captain Kuchiki, finding Renji and throwing himself at him, talking to Rukia… A meeting with Unohana. He didn’t remember the details, he’d been unable to concentrate for most of it, but there had been a phrase she’d repeated—“ _el juramento_.” It meant “the oath” and that he had to have sex with an Arrancar man a lot and then he’d been cured. Why? Something about Aizen and genetic engineering and pheromones. It seemed so silly, somehow, but he was feeling a lot better this morning. You know, after all that Arrancar sex he’d had last night. He supposed it wasn’t so silly after all.

He remembered Unohana telling him that Grimmjow had volunteered, and he also remembered agreeing enthusiastically that he was the man for the job. He’d had some reservations… about what, exactly? Not about Grimmjow in particular, but about the whole concept. The oath… an oath of loyalty, given to a superior. Grimmjow was not his superior. Ichigo was not his subordinate, nor did he have any desire to be. Did Grimmjow think he was?

His memories of last night offered mixed answers. Before everything, Grimmjow had promised he didn’t think this meant he had any claim on Ichigo, but there had been that thing…

Ichigo buried his face in the pillow, remembering how Grimmjow’s commands had reduced him to a quivering puddle of need, remembered jerking off for him and practically begging to suck his dick. Ichigo had never… 

He’d talked Orihime into trying to dominate him once, but she’d resembled nothing more than an admittedly very well-developed kid playing dress up as she’d blushed furiously in the white faux-leather bustier he’d bought her, stammering commands. The experiment had not been a success. She’d been far too self-conscious and he’d been convinced she must think him a pervert for wanting something that obviously didn’t appeal to her at all.

He’d never even tried anything like that with other people, too shy to ask any more casual lover. But Grimmjow had just _known_ somehow, read Ichigo’s desires off his skin like words off a page. And he’d seemed like he liked it, or at least he hadn’t seemed like he’d just been playing along for Ichigo’s sake… Had he? At any rate, he’d been as hard as a rock when Ichigo finally got his mouth on him and—

Ichigo’s body tensed as he fought the urge to immediately jump up and brush his teeth. Oh, god; oh, yuck… They hadn’t even cleaned up in between! He hadn’t cared one bit about it at the time, too aroused to think. He wondered if Grimmjow had been the same, or if he’d noticed and been either appalled or turned on by how nasty Ichigo was. Had it tasted bad? Not really, he hadn’t noticed it at the time. Grimmjow must have wiped himself off on a blanket or something at some point. But there definitely hadn’t been any soap and water.

“Y’alright?” a sleepy voice murmured from behind him.

Ichigo started, twitching in Grimmjow’s arms. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

“Ya turned into a stone—yer body’s all hard, an’ not in the fun way,” Grimmjow answered, his voice morning-rough, sounding about equal parts annoyed to have the thing he was cuddling become less cuddly and concerned about what had disturbed Ichigo. 

Ichigo took a breath and forced himself to relax—what was done was done. Grimmjow hadn’t showed any signs of thinking he was disgusting on any level, not for sucking a dick that had been in his ass not twenty minutes before and not for submitting to him like that. And besides, like he’d said last night, he apparently had an excuse. So it was okay. 

Grimmjow wouldn’t think ill of him for being slutty and submissive, because that was what was expected of him. It was okay. It was normal, for the circumstances. 

 _Normal_ , Ichigo thought.

_Okay._

Ichigo consciously relaxed back against Grimmjow and snuggled into the warm curve of his body. He wanted to go back to sleep, but his mind kept picking at the situation. Ichigo might have an excuse, but Grimmjow didn’t, he realized. His body hadn’t betrayed him; he didn’t need this in order to survive. Why was he here? Why was he doing this? He was a very important man, surely he had better things to be doing that wasting the next three days in here with Ichigo, indulging Ichigo’s weird fantasies.

Grimmjow was awake, too, Ichigo could tell. He was either feigning sleep or content just to lie there, but he was definitely not sleeping. 

“Why are you doing this?” Ichigo asked, glad they weren’t facing each other. “You don’t even know me, not really. Did you really volunteer, or did Captain Kuchiki ask you to do it as a favor? Or for some reward?”

Grimmjow was quiet for so long that Ichigo thought maybe he’d been wrong and he really was asleep. When he spoke, his tone was soft and serious. “‘Cause it’s what someone did for me, once, an’ I’ve never forgotten it. ‘Cause maybe I don’ really know ya, but I do more than any other o’ my kind, an’ I didn’t trust anyone else not to fuck this up.”

After another moment, he nuzzled Ichigo’s neck and spoke right into his ear, voice a low, seductive purr. “My motives ain’t that pure, though. I didn’t want no other Arrancar to get to fuck ya before me. Or at all, really. I want ya. I been wantin’ ya. Yer one sexy Shinigami, in case ya hadn’t noticed.”

Ichigo smiled. That was an answer he could believe, and it felt really good to hear. Grimmjow thought he was sexy. He wasn’t just doing this out of some kind of duty, he really did want Ichigo. That was always… nice. He liked being desired, even more than most people, perhaps. The thing was that Ichigo was really quite unsure about whether he was attractive or not, so he always appreciated when people weighed in on the topic as directly as Grimmjow had.

Ichigo thought he was okay to look at, and he was certainly very fit, but he had never really learned how to tell when someone was looking at him that way. Because of this, he wasn’t sure if he never got the kind of admiring looks he’d heard people talk about or if he just couldn’t identify them. Sometimes his friends told him a store clerk or somebody had been checking him out, but Ichigo never saw it, so he wasn’t sure if he believed them.

He’d been so caught up in the rapid growth of his Shinigami powers as a teenager, he’d never really learned to identify flirting, either, so he almost never knew if anyone was eyeing him unless they outright propositioned him. That happened occasionally, but not often. 

Also, he couldn’t help but think that people with glossy, black hair (or, failing that, western features to match the western hair) were more attractive than Japanese guys with soft orange hair. It looked weird with his mildly Asiatic features; as a kid, he’d been called a ‘retard’ many, many times for the combination of his fair hair with his almond-shaped eyes. He’d gone through an entire semester once where his classmates called him ‘ _Daonsu’_ , the Japanese pronunciation of ‘Down’s’ every time the teacher hadn’t been around to hear and sometimes even when she had.

And then there was the part where he’d spent a long time with someone who didn’t want him nearly as much as he wanted her. Was it a difference in sex drive, or was he just that unappealing? He hadn’t known then and still didn’t now. 

Then there was the other part where so many of his human acquaintances and even some of the Shinigami were so intimidated by him that they would never consider letting their guard down enough to be intimate with him.

The point was that Ichigo was insecure about his appearance and general level of desirability. Grimmjow, unless he was lying, seemed to suffer from no such ambivalence, which was heartening. Surely someone as hot as Grimmjow couldn’t be wrong about this.

Grimmjow made an incredulous noise and rolled him onto his back, propping himself on one elbow to stare at him. “Ya really _hadn’t_ noticed how fine you are?”

“People aren’t usually attracted to me…” Ichigo muttered, looking away. “I scare them. Too different, too strong. Too surly, too weird-looking. Or possibly just too oblivious, I dunno.”

“Mmm,” Grimmjow hummed, considering. “If that’s true, then they’re a buncha cowards who scare too easy. Yer eye-catcin’. Interestin’. Anyway, who’d want someone who was weak an’ jus’ like everybody else?” 

After a moment’s thought, Grimmjow answered his own question. “Somebody who’s also weak an’ jus’ like everybody else would want someone like that, I guess.”

“So,” he continued with a grin, “Why don’ you an’ me jus’ leave the losers to each other an’ have a real good time for the next couple days?”

Ichigo knew he shouldn’t—it was no good to think of people who weren’t strong like them as weak and losers, certainly—but he grinned back anyway, unable to resist Grimmjow’s sly enthusiasm.

“Trust me, let me in, and I’ll make this the best fuckin’ three days of your life. Don’t hold back with me, not ever. I’ll take real good care o’ ya, _dulzura_ ,” Grimmjow promised, leaning over to kiss Ichigo’s shoulder. 

Ichigo’s nascent good mood abruptly evaporated at that. He didn’t like the idea of being taken care of. He didn’t like it at all. The idea of someone going out of their way to meet his needs was uncomfortable on multiple levels, and the idea of holding nothing back was so alien as to seem absurd.

Grimmjow fixed him with a penetrating look, taking in the change and trying to figure out what had caused it.

“Ya don’t like needin’ things, do ya?” he asked, accurately fixing on part of the problem, if not its entirety.

Ichigo just shook his head. When he was sick, he never let anyone take care of him. He’d suffer through it by himself, thank you very much, and he’d suffer through this alone, too, if he could. He couldn’t, though, and that was the problem.

“I like how strong ya are, Ichigo. I like it a lot. But that don’t mean ya got to do it every second of every day,” Grimmjow told him seriously, reaching a hand over to touch Ichigo’s face. “Just this once, let somebody else carry the load. I know yer dyin’ to hand things over—I saw it last night. So, just this one time, just for a little while, give it a try. That’s what a _fideicomissario_ is, it means yer supposed ta trust me to take care o’ things for a couple days.” 

After a moment passed and he got no response, he added, “An’ that’s what _empujador_ means, that yer allowed to.”

Ichigo sat up, feeling like lying there on his back left him too open, too vulnerable. He bit his lip, wavering as he considered Grimmjow’s words. This thing had already stripped away so much of his control that the idea of giving up more was genuinely frightening. But he didn't know what he was scared of, exactly, and Grimmjow’s hand on his face had felt so good.

Maybe his fear was that if he opened up, even ‘just this once’, as Grimmjow had put it, he wouldn’t be able to close himself off again. He had been hurt, badly enough that the wounds were still raw even two years later. He didn’t want to go through that again, and if he started trusting people in that way, he might have to. He had become a walled city like Seireitei, and who knew what might get and what damage it might do if he opened the gates.

He’d had his heart broken exactly twice in his life, only once as an adult, and that was more than enough. He’d tried so fucking hard to make it work with Orihime, he’d bared himself to her in a way that he never had to anyone else, he’d _trusted her_ and in the end, she had rejected him. He had shown her everything he had, everything he was and she had been… she had been scared.  

And that, he knew, was the real reason he never truly opened himself up. Walls had two purposes—sometimes they kept things out, but sometimes they kept them in, too. He’d fortified his heart not to protect it from the world, or not just that—but to protect the world from him. What must he be, for even Orihime, who stood tall against the world that could crush her at any time, who met enemies with love and understanding, to be afraid of him? 

“You don’t know me,” Ichigo said, after a while. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. You… you don’t know what you’re getting into. I’m… I’m not…”

“Yer not what?”

“I’m not the kind of person to be taken care of,” Ichigo answered gruffly, looking away.

To his surprise, Grimmjow sat up and made an “Oh!” sound, like he understood something now that he hadn’t before. He shifted to sit right in front of Ichigo and look him in the eye.

“Ya don’t think ya deserve it,” Grimmjow slowly at first as he worked out his theory, alert blue eyes peering at him curiously. It wasn’t a question, so Ichigo didn’t answer it. “Ya think ya gotta be the strong one, since it ain’t right to have somebody else sacrifice a damn thing for ya, since they’re worth so much more than you. Somebody’s got ya convinced that yer fucked up beyond repair. That yer, what, dangerous?”

“I am dangerous,” Ichigo said in a voice flat with certainty and cold with anger. He didn’t add, ‘And yes, I am fucked up beyond repair,’ though he knew it to be true.

Who the fuck was this guy, anyway, to come in here and talk like he knew Ichigo? Who was he, to lay him bare with a few words? Not even his closest friends would dare call him on something like this, and this guy… This guy…

Too close, he thought; they were too close, only inches apart. Ichigo climbed off the bed and began pacing, his heart beating quickly and his hands trembling in something that felt a great deal like fear. 

“You haven’t seen the half of what I can do, Grimmjow, and I know that I haven’t hit my limits yet. Not even close. You know why? Because I don’t let myself. Ever. If I was to lose my temper; if I was to truly lose control…”

“Ooh, _scary,_ ” Grimmjow replied mockingly, an arrogant sneer on his lips. “Ya got no idea how much I’m lookin’ forward to our rematch. You ain’t seen nothin’ from me; that was just play-fightin’ like a couple o’ kittens. Of course you’re fuckin’ dangerous; that’s one of the things that makes ya so fuckin’ hot, but keep in mind that I got my title by being the one of the strongest motherfuckers on this planet. Yer afraid yer gonna hurt me? _I can’t wait to see ya try.”_

“You don’t get it!” Ichigo cried, frustrated beyond belief. Why was Grimmjow acting like this? He couldn’t wait to see Ichigo try, he said? That was insane. He didn’t get it, not at all. He didn’t understand the danger. Grimmjow wasn’t stupid, so why couldn’t he _see?_

Ichigo drew up his reiatsu, let it blaze and flare around him, as much as he dared on a ship. For once, he didn’t try to tone down the violent spikes of it, the way it licked at the air as if it wanted to consume the world until there was nothing left but black and crimson and power, nothing left but Ichigo. He’d grown reckless in his anger, consumed with a masochistic urge to see Grimmjow recoil from him like Ichigo knew he should.

He went on, spilling his most closely-held secrets in his need to make Grimmjow understand just what kind of thing he had just been curled up with.  

“I don’t just mean that I’m strong,” Ichigo said, his tone flat and cold. “There’s something dark in me, something that wants to hurt people. Part of me… part of me wants to tear you apart for what we did last night, for daring to put yourself above me.”

He stalked closer, willing Grimmjow to take a step back. He didn’t. Inches away, he hissed, “I can hear it, if I listen. Sometimes I can hear it even when I try not to. It’s getting louder, as time goes by, as I get stronger. It’s where I get some of my power. You can’t tell me that you want to get to know—that you want to _take care of_ —something like that!”

Grimmjow stared at him, head tilted quizzically to the side, brows drawn down in confusion. Wait, confusion? Ichigo just kind of stared at him, taken aback by his odd response, his raging emotions stilling into puzzlement. 

Then a light of understanding dawned on Grimmjow’s face, and it quickly turned to… what? Sadness? Sympathy? _Pity?_ Ichigo’s rage started to build again, all of it turned outward this time, directed at Grimmjow instead of himself. Who was this man, to dare to pity him?

 _“_ Oh, _dulzura,_ don’t you realize that’s how it is for every man, woman, and child on this planet?” Grimmjow asked, his tone sad and sympathetic.

“Huh?” Ichigo asked blankly, brought up short yet again.

Grimmjow slowly blew out a breath, puffing out his cheeks as if he was considering where to begin. He sat down on the bed, looking up at Ichigo, and said, “We Arrancar all got our inner Hollow. That’s what we call it, that thing inside that tells us to destroy; to kill an’ rape an’ do whatever the fuck we want. 

“That’s how Aizen made us. I don’t know if it skipped a generation or what, but ya must to favor your Arrancar side pretty strongly to be goin’ through _el juramento_ , so I’m sure ya got one in there. That’s what that thing is, that ya were sayin’ about. Yer inner Hollow.

“When I fought ya, I felt yer reiatsu—I felt what yer talkin’ about, even though ya keep it locked down pretty good. What probably feels dark an’ menacing to yer Shinigami friends just feels normal to me. We all learn to control—nah, that ain’t right—we all learn ta _work with_ that part of ourselves, and yeah, we’ve been a violent bunch o’ heathens for most of our existence, but we ain’t doin’ so bad these days.”

Ichigo stared at him and then stared some more. Then he blinked, and then he went back to staring. _“What?”_

Grimmjow continued, relentless. “Ya ain’t crazy. Ya ain’t hearin’ voices, or none that ya shouldn’t be hearin’ anyway. Ya ain’t any more fucked up than any of us—well, maybe a little, cause yer clearly so torn up over what somebody shoulda told ya was normal. Seriously, yer mama didn’t ever tell ya about any o’ this?”

Ichigo shook his head, blinking rapidly as he sat down on the bed beside Grimmjow. Damn this _juramento_ , damn his brain and body for making him so volatile, so emotional. He needed to thing, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be feeling right now. He didn’t know what he _was_ feeling right now, except that there was so much of it he could barely breathe. He had a Hollow—or a part of one, anyway, or something—inside him. But he wasn’t crazy! But he had a Hollow inside him… Just like everybody else in this place.

Answering Grimmjow’s question, he said, “Maybe she was waiting to tell me when I was older? She was murdered when I was nine.”

“Well, that fuckin’ sucks,” Grimmjow said sincerely, which made Ichigo smile a little for some reason. 

“Yeah,” Ichigo sighed. “But I can’t believe… You’re all like this? I mean, even you, personally?”

“O’ course,”  Grimmjow said, looking at him earnestly. “I call my inner Hollow ‘Pantera'—it means panther, cause that’s what he always felt like ta me. Like a great fuckin’ cat that just wants ta hunt and be the strongest around, king o’ all he surveys, and kill whoever he wants, whenever he wants.” 

With a sideways glance at Ichigo, he added, “An’ fuck whoever he wants, too.”

Ichigo stared, wide eyed. This was seriously too much for him to deal with right now. What he’d always thought must be some kind of mental illness, the secret Other that he’d hidden away and tried to suppress, was really a vestige of his Arrancar roots? It was true, then, that he had something dark and dangerous inside of him, but it also meant that he wasn’t the only one. Not by far. There was a whole planet of people out there who had the same thing… and there was one person who had it right here with him.

Grimmjow sat up straight, suddenly, and said, “Hey, I know! There’s people who specialize in this shit, that deal with tough cases where the integration ain’t quite right. Usually their clients are a bit younger—adolescents—but I bet they’d be happy to take you on, given the circumstances.”

He nodded vigorously, his enthusiasm for this plan growing as he thought it through. “Yeah, yeah—When you’re back ta normal, I can introduce ya to some people whose whole thing is ta help facilitate a good _simpatico_ between an Arrancar and their inner Hollow. Damn, man, I bet once ya stop tryin’ ta wish it out of existence, yer gonna be even stronger. Like, way stronger. Strong enough to be a real fuckin’ challenge to me at full strength. Maybe you’ll even get a sword release like an Arrancar in addition to yer shinigami shikai-bankai stuff. Ooh, I can’t wait ta fight ya for real.”

He shivered a little in excitement, like a puppy being forced to wait to play and grinned at Ichigo, sudden and wide and eager. It was a sharp-edged thing, a little wicked, and the way it looked reminded Ichigo very abruptly that they were both naked. Which was good, because this was really too much to take in right now. He’d consider it again some more later.

Grimmjow caught his change in mood and the smile turned sly. He shifted a little closer and his voice was a little lower when he said, “I think we got kinda sidetracked. The question was if ya were gonna let me take care o’ ya. If ya were gonna quit fightin’ _el juramento_ an’ give it up to me.”

“Didn’t I do that last night?” Ichigo asked, a little breathless. 

“The second time was a good start. The first time, ya weren’t really in possession o’ yer wits. It was fuckin’ great, don’t get me wrong, but I wanna do it _with_ ya, not _to_ ya. I’m tellin’ ya, you been tryin’ to fight it, an’ last night ya lost. But what I want is for you to _surrender._ ” 

Surrender. The very sound of the word, the way Grimmjow’s lips looked as he shaped it, was somehow impossibly seductive. Ichigo licked his own suddenly dry lips. This _el juramento_ thing wasn’t so bad, Ichigo decided—he’d always known how to let desire roll him under as a means to get away from his troubles, but it wasn’t even going to be difficult this time. He needed that, after such a shock as he’d just received.

“How… how would I do that? How would I… surrender?” he asked, envisioning a little orange-haired homunculus guy captioned with the word “Pride” waving a white flag.

“Hmm… First off, I think the way ta start is for ya ta admit what ya want. I want you to tell me what ya want, Ichigo. Not just somethin’ easy like, “I want ya to fuck me,” or “I want ya to suck me off,” but detailed-like. The things you been thinkin’ about these past days but don’t wanna admit out loud,” Grimmjow explained.

Ichigo felt a hot flush of excitement and then a wave of icy dread, right on its heels. He didn’t know if he could do that. He wanted to, but what if Grimmjow didn’t like what he heard? What if Ichigo said something really wrong and it made him leave? He didn’t know anything about Grimmjow’s tastes, not really, so how could he know what would freak him out?  

“How do I know the right thing to say, yer thinkin’. How do I know he wants to hear? What’ll turn him on? What if I turn him off instead?” Grimmjow said, and it brought a flush to Ichigo’s cheeks and a scowl to his lips to be so easily read. 

“That’s why it’s called surrender, _dulzura_. Ya got to put yourself out there, put yourself in my hands. But in case I didn’t make this clear, I ain’t leavin’, and I don’t scare easy. Ya say somethin’ I don’t like and I jus’ won’t do it, though I think that ain’t too likely.”

“Do I have to say it all at once?” Ichigo asked, his belly full of butterflies. 

Grimmjow shrugged. “Ya can if ya want, or ya can just start at the beginning. The only thing ya can’t do is lie or hide. Promise me ya won’t.”

“I won’t lie, not even by omission,” Ichigo promised, and then in a moment of reckless conviction, he added, “I swear it on my zanpakuto, Zangetsu.” 

Grimmjow swallowed hard, clearly pleased by Ichigo’s commitment. Ichigo’s whole body was shaking with nerves and excitement; this whole thing was well out of his comfort zone but nonetheless so appealing as to have captured his whole attention. He’d expected to be physically dominated or something, not to have to bare himself like this. Now he couldn’t lie, couldn’t tell Grimmjow what he thought he wanted to hear, or else he’d be forsworn. 

He realized that he’d always been focused on pleasing others, in the bedroom and maybe elsewhere, too. It had never struck him as a bad thing, as dishonest, to always put his lovers’ pleasure first, but maybe it was, a little, or at least it was cowardly. If Orihime wanted a kind, gentle lover, he could become that. If Renji wanted a friendly-yet-impersonal helping hand, he could become that too… But in that case, who did he have to blame but himself if he was dissatisfied? Then again, though, it was better than nothing; it was better than voicing his desires and being rejected.

So if he really could have whatever he wanted… Ichigo had no idea what to do. It was like when you went to a restaurant and the menu had too many things on it and they all sounded too delicious. That was why it was so easy for him to play the chameleon, because he was essentially pretty easy to please. He liked it all the ways, within certain limits, of course. 

Last night had been fantastic, both times—being properly, thoroughly _fucked_ was the one thing he’d been craving most, since this whole thing started. But Ichigo kind of hated people who, when confronted with too many tremendously appealing options, always played it safe and stuck with something they knew they liked. Besides, if _that_ was all they did, Ichigo didn’t think his body could take it. 

“Yer stuck, ain’t ya?” Grimmjow asked, looking a little exasperated. 

“Uh…” Ichigo said articulately.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

“Okay, try this. Ya probably jerked off about eight million times since this started, and I’m sure you’ve been dreamin’ about nothin’ but sex, so tell me somethin’ from a dream or a fantasy,” Grimmjow suggested. 

Eight million did sound about right, or at least that’s what it felt like. His thoughts had been too disjointed to come up with many really coherent fantasies, though, especially since because of this el-whatist, it wasn’t like he needed to think about anything in particular to get hard. Dreams, though—several of those stood out in his mind; his dreams had been unusually vivid since this thing started, but he’d been distressed enough by his condition that a lot of them had been unpleasant. He still remembered that Orihime nightmare from the first night—god, that had been awful—and there was one featuring Captain Komura that hadn’t been a nightmare while he was actually having it, which just made it _that much worse._ But they hadn’t all been bad—there had been that dream set in Grimmjow’s bedroom, the one he’d clung to so desperately as he slipped feverishly from sleep to waking and back again.

That’s what he wanted. For sure, that was it. But oh, god—why had his mind seized on that of all things? It would be easy to ask Grimmjow for fast and rough, but slow and sweet? After all that talk about what a big, scary thing he was? That was… he’d feel so stupid! So pathetic, needy in exactly the wrong kind of way. What was wrong with him, anyway? All this time, all this internal bitching about Orihime and how dissatisfied he’d been that he never got to just let go and fuck her, and here he was, about to ask for the kind of thing that she always preferred. 

Well, no. That wasn’t exactly right. The thought of making Grimmjow hold back or having to do so himself was tremendously unappealing, and anyway it wasn’t like he hadn’t liked making love to Orihime, he only hadn’t liked that every single time was the same. But he’d already got his dose of hard and fast for now, as had Grimmjow, so why shouldn't they go for something a little different? It just sounded so embarrassing, though! So girly. “Oh, please be gentle,” was really, really not his style.

It wasn’t gentleness that he wanted, though; not exactly. Not soft, but close and hot and and their skin clinging sweat-sticky as they moved together. Yeah, that sounded exactly right—Ichigo felt a flush of arousal as he remembered the images and sensations from his dream. 

Grimmjow was just waiting patiently, seeming to realize that he’d set Ichigo something of a difficult task. 

“I had this dream,” Ichigo began, figuring this would be the easiest way to explain what he wanted. “Where we were in your bedroom—of course, I have no idea what your bedroom actually looks like, so I guess I made one up for you—and we…” 

He couldn’t. Oh, he couldn’t say it. The phrase had taken on such a negative connotation in his mind during the death throes of his and Orihime’s relationship, but he thought those were the right words for the content of his dream nonetheless. Ichigo closed his eyes, took a deep breath, screwed up his courage (and his red, red face) and blurted, “I guess you could say we made love; that you made love to me.” 

After a second, Ichigo opened one eye to peek out at Grimmjow and gauge his reaction. Ichigo had surprised him, he could tell, but his expression was far from the contempt that Ichigo had feared. He looked… Well, Ichigo didn’t know what he looked, but it seemed to be in the positive family. He was smiling a little, for once without the sharp edges that Ichigo had come to associate with his smiles. 

Opening his eyes and relaxing his face, he forged on. “It wasn’t particularly gentle, but it was slow and deep and we were touching all over; it was so hot—temperature-wise I mean—your skin and mine pressed together. I guess the word I want is ‘passionate.’ We were face-to-face for part of the time, and we kissed and kissed and kissed.” 

In the dream, Grimmjow hadn’t just kissed him on the mouth, either… Ichigo’s eyes went wide, and he flung himself back, his hands coming up in a “time out” gesture.

“Wait!’ Ichigo said, slightly too loud. “Can I take a shower first?” 

Grimmjow’s eyebrows climbed. “Of course ya can; what, ya think I’m not gonna let ya? But why’re ya so alarmed about needin’ ta take a shower, anyway?”

The heat of his face had faded somewhat, but it came rushing back at both his sudden overreaction and the reason for it. That… was definitely not something he felt comfortable asking for, either. He’d only ever had it done to him a couple times, and he’d been refused more than once when he’d tried to use his mouth that way on his previous lovers. Grimmjow didn’t strike him as the particularly fastidious type—not after last night, good god—but who knew? It was possible that in Arrancar culture asking for something so… _unclean_ could be a grave insult.

Grimmjow took in his tongue-tied embarrassment for a long moment, then a smile began to spread across his mouth—this time, it had a whole lot of sharp edges. He leaned closer slyly, and said, “I dunno about your dream version, but I know some things I’d do if I set out ta give it to somebody like ya were sayin’. If yer thinkin’ what I think yer thinkin’, then it’s somethin’ I been dyin’ to do since last night. So why don’t ya spit it out?”

“I want your mouth on me,” Ichigo admitted, then realized that was nowhere near specific enough when he saw Grimmjow’s blank look. Cheeks hot, he elaborated.  “On… onmyass.”

Grimmjow blinked back at him, mock innocent, reminding him so much of Urahara that it was truly unsettling. “On yer ‘onmyass?’ Sorry, is that some kinda Shinigami thing? I dunno what that is.”

Ichigo rolled his eyes, irritated. He’d show Grimmjow that he wasn’t too shy and embarrassed to say what he wanted.

“I want you to take your tongue,” Ichigo began, one finger pointed sternly at Grimmjow, “And stick it in my ass.” Because this seemed like an incomplete summary, he added, “And… and wiggle it around!” 

Grimmjow just looked at him a moment, and then completely lost it, flopping onto his back as he cracked up laughing. 

Ichigo hadn’t seen him laugh before, except for maybe a small chuckle at some point last night. It was good. Ichigo’s lips twitched—partly because seeing anyone laugh that hard made him want to laugh, too, and partly because he was starting to realize what a completely ridiculous thing he’d just said. 

Grimmjow got himself under control enough to sort of speak, but he just pointed a mock-forceful finger at Ichigo the same way Ichigo had just done to him and said, his voice high and tight as he tried to keep from laughing, “An’… an’ wiggle it around! Kurosaki, what the fuck…” 

When Grimmjow, tears in his eyes, wiggled the finger he was pointing at Ichigo, Ichigo finally lost the battle with himself and dissolved into laughter.  

When they got themselves under control a few moments later, still snickering occasionally, Grimmjow said, “I’ll be happy ta do that, by the way, however ya wanna describe it. Go, get up, go take yer shower. Ya got five minutes to sort yourself out, and then I’m comin’ to enjoy yer wet, slippery self.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week on El Juramento:  
> I already told you what next week is, so here's a quote instead, to whet your appetite, as it were.
> 
> "Ichigo nuzzled, licked, sucked; wiry hair scratched across his cheek as he covered his face in Grimmjow's strong, musky scent. He inhaled deeply, the action resembling nothing so much as taking in a hit of a drug, some kind of smoke going straight to his head and making him dizzy, shaky, euphoric. The corresponding exhale came out as a soft moan.
> 
> God, he smelled good. But not ‘good’ good, not ‘nice,' not like perfume or roses, not like some complex blend of spices. The closest experience in his memory was when he'd smelled roasted meat or fresh bread it made his stomach growl and his mouth water before he'd even thought the names of the scents and the foods they represented. This was like that, but deeper. Older. Less civilized. His appreciation was not aesthetic but visceral, bypassing his higher consciousness entirely. It made Ichigo feel like an animal, to be so aroused by this man’s scent."


	9. Gourmand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ichigo and Grimmjow take a shower, but don't get around to actually washing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an effort to be more detailed than the previous sex scene, I may have gone a bit overboard.  
> Just a little.  
> Or maybe a lot.  
> Chalk it up to Ichigo's immense enthusiasm for the object of his attentions.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

Once he’d completed the more personal of his ablutions, Ichigo stood under the hot water spray, luxuriating in the sensation of it coursing over his skin. He really ought to wash up properly, with soap and shampoo and all that, but he had a whole cadre of lingering aches that were telling him to stay right where he was. Aches from fever, aches from lying around too much, and of course (his favorite of the bunch) aches from last night’s exertions… The hot water felt ridiculously good, soothing and relaxing his knotted muscles.

Normally, aboard ship he had the option of a five minute shower or a sonic scrub, but the bathtub’s presence told him he had a water allocation that was either unlimited or pretty huge. Plus there was no clock that had started running when he’d turned on the water, so that was a good sign. Anyway, he planned to enjoy the luxury while he could. 

“Yo, Ichigo,” Grimmjow called. “I”m comin’ in.”

“‘Kay,” Ichigo called back, and for a moment he was struck by the strange domesticity of the scene. He kind of liked it; he thought he could get used to having Grimmjow around.

That was a bad, bad thought and Ichigo quashed it as thoroughly as he could, which was not very thoroughly at all. He had to remember that they were only here for another month, or even less if things took a turn for the hostile. He didn’t think that was likely, but one never knew. He’d been out of it for going on six days now, so who knew what was going on? Anyway, their time together was not unlimited, and for all Grimmjow’s talk of making the most of this, it was a terrible idea to allow himself to get too attached. Whether he could help it was another question entirely, but he had to at least try.

His resolve lasted all of thirty seconds, until Grimmjow stepped into the shower and pressed up behind him, the feeling of skin on slick, wet skin completely obliterating all his wobbly, hastily erected defenses. For this, Ichigo would betray his better judgement a thousand times over.

Grimmjow greeted him by trailing a line of kisses down Ichigo’s neck, and Ichigo closed his eyes and leaned back into the warm strength of him, tipping his head to the side to allow better access. Fuck that strategy anyway, he decided. He’d enjoy this to the fullest and pay the piper later. If he got his heart broken, so be it—he’d picked up the pieces before, and if he had to do it again, he could. You only live once. Carpe diem and all that. Better to have—well, never mind. He knew what he meant.

At any rate, what was he doing standing here thinking about it? Clearly he had better things to do. He had the capacity, as far as he could tell, to get hard _an unlimited number of times in a row._ Basically, it amounted to the capacity for multiple orgasms. That was like… living the dream. He’d have to throw away his man card if he didn’t take as much advantage of that as he could.

Resolved to this much superior plan, he turned in Grimmjow’s arms to catch his mouth in a kiss, open and eager and suddenly joyful. Grimmjow was a great kisser, Ichigo was reminded. He wasn’t even a little shy or hesitant, but it wasn’t like he was trying to completely own Ichigo’s mouth, either, although he had the feeling it wouldn’t be hard to provoke a more aggressive response. Mmm, maybe later—no, make that definitely later. Right now, though, this was perfect.

Except for one thing. Ichigo pulled Grimmjow forward so that they were both under the spray, wetting their hair and forcing them to close their eyes, making their kiss taste like clean water. Oh, yes, that was it—their arms twined around each other as their bodies slid together, wet and slick and astoundingly perfect. Making out in the shower was the best, Ichigo thought. It was so _slippery;_ his hands sliding over Grimmjow’s well-muscled back, his shoulders, the dip of his spine.

Ichigo’s surged forward, pressing Grimmjow to the shower wall, reveling in the slip-slide of their chests together, his hands slipping between them to map out the contours of Grimmjow’s abs and the rim of his _agujero_. Every bit of him was so strong, so sculpted, but never bulky. Mmm, even his ass felt strong, Ichigo thought as his hands made their way back around to spend a moment squeezing it. No neglecting the back part of his body here, like so many inept gym-rats did. Ichigo wondered idly if he ought to ask him for his routine; clearly it was a good one. Nobody got a body like that unless they both spent a lot of time lifting weights and knew what they were doing.

It turned Ichigo the fuck on. Oh, yes—he didn’t really know why, but he liked guys that were bigger than him. It also made him feel queer as hell to be so excited by Grimmjow’s exceedingly masculine body, but hey, there was nothing wrong with that. Ichigo defied even the straightest man to feel nothing with his hands on Grimmjow’s naked body, on the soft, warm skin laid over such unyielding flesh. It was utterly enticing.

Grimmjow was so smooth nearly everywhere—Arrancar men, apparently, had less body hair than either Human or Shinigami men. He had a bit on the front of his legs, under his arms, and between his legs—that was all. There was only fine down anywhere else. Ichigo liked this; it  certainly enhanced the wet skin slippery-firmness of his body.

And speaking of things that were firm, now there was something. Grimmjow was getting hard for him, his dick twitching against Ichigo’s hip as it filled. He liked that, liked that he was doing that, liked that Grimmjow was becoming aroused for him and by him. 

Ichigo was seized with a sudden desire to go to his knees and take Grimmjow into his mouth so he could feel that transition with his lips and tongue. Seeing no reason to deny himself, he leaned over and whispered in Grimmjow’s ear, “I want to suck you a little; use my mouth to make you hard. Any objections?”

Grimmjow laughed weakly. “Why would I object to that? But ya don’t have to, this is plenty interestin’ enough, and we ain’t tryin’a do anythin’ much in here anyway.”

Ichigo shook his head. “I want to. I want to feel it, what I’m doing to you. How I’m turning you on.”

“Well, ya better hurry up, then, ‘cause yer turnin’ me on already, just by talkin’ like that and lookin’ so damn sexy.”

Ichigo turned them so the water from the shower splashed across the back of Grimmjow’s shoulders and dropped to his knees, his hands on Grimmjow’s narrow hips, caressing the hollows of them with his thumbs. Ichigo took the whole of Grimmjow’s cock into his mouth, playing with the soft, spongy plumpness of it, sliding the delicate foreskin back with the tip of his tongue and tracing patterns over the sensitive skin he exposed. Ichigo sucked, pulling back, stretching it out and making Grimmjow groan appreciatively. 

It felt bigger already, fatter, suggesting the impressive size he remembered from last night, and even though Grimmjow was the one being pleasured, this was definitely turning Ichigo on just as much. He smelled intoxicating, even over the clean scent of the water, so very, utterly male; musky and indefinably different than a human or Shinigami man. Sharper, maybe. Wilder. He vaguely recalled Unohana saying something about pheromones, that they were important in this process—Ichigo felt like he was getting high on the damn things.

He took a break from sucking him to mouth at Grimmjow’s balls, wiry blue hair and faintly wrinkled skin rasping under his tongue, across his lips and cheek. He’d never really thought about how intimate an act this was before—any man was so vulnerable to pain and injury here that it was something notable to be allowed to touch. Not just that, but herein lay the capacity for reproduction, one of the more important aspects of life; of Life even, in the most expansive possible sense. It was one thing, to come face-to-face with such a formidable thing as an erection (or such a formidable thing as Grimmjow’s, anyway), with balls drawn up to firmness and protected against the body. This was quite another, with everything soft and heavy and so very… nuzzleable.

And so Ichigo nuzzled; he licked and sucked, covering his face in Grimmjow's strong, musky scent. He inhaled deeply, the action resembling nothing so much as taking in a hit of a drug, some kind of smoke going straight to his head and making him dizzy, shaky, euphoric. The corresponding exhale came out as a soft moan.

God, he smelled good. But not ‘good’ good, not ‘nice,' not like perfume or roses, not like some complex blend of spices. The closest experience in his memory was when he'd smelled roasted meat or fresh bread it made his stomach growl and his mouth water before he'd even thought the names of the scents and the foods they represented. This was like that, but deeper. Older. Less civilized. His appreciation was not aesthetic but visceral, bypassing his higher consciousness entirely. It made Ichigo feel like an animal, to be so aroused by this man’s scent.

Grimmjow rumbled a sound like a groan and a sigh mixed together and bit his lip, stroking Ichigo’s hair as Ichigo drew one of his heavy-hanging balls into his mouth, sucking on it lightly, laving it with his tongue. He released it and did the same to the other in the name of symmetry, then realized that Grimmjow so liked this that Ichigo would miss what he was down here for if he didn’t get back to it. 

He held the base of Grimmjow’s half-hard cock between his thumb and first two fingers and began to work him properly, slow but steady, twisting his neck and sucking every time he drew off. It was different than sucking his fully hard cock; the way he could manipulate it with his lips and tongue. A little less arousing, perhaps, but a little more fun and, like he’d been thinking, a little more intimate. And that made it arousing in its own way, Ichigo thought.

And at any rate, it wasn’t like it was a one-or-the-other deal—if you started sucking on a soft cock, you’d end up with a hard one unless something went seriously awry. That was his favorite part, the way Grimmjow stiffened under his touch, his cock twitching and filling in Ichigo’s mouth. The idea that _he_ could arouse someone so magnificent as _Grimmjow_ was exciting and amazing and astoundingly erotic. Every signal that was within his limited capacity to interpret said Grimmjow wanted him, and Ichigo wanted nothing more than to simply bask in the sensation of being so desired.

Why had he become so reflective? It wasn’t that he wasn’t turned on, just that he was distractible. He needed to focus, that’s what he needed to do; needed to focus on sensation instead of such abstract concepts. Sensations like the stretch of his lips and his wide-open jaw now that Grimmjow was fully hard, the spit-slick friction of his lips working up and down, up and down. It was almost uncomfortable, actually, keeping his mouth open so wide—maybe Ichigo was a bit of a masochist, but he liked that, liked that he had to be opened too wide for Grimmjow to fit.

He wanted to do it the way Grimmjow most liked, to give him the most perfect blowjob he could imagine. His memories of last night were a little hazy, but he clearly remembered Grimmjow telling him, ‘Make it slow and messy; get my dick all wet.” That and the way he’d groaned, overcome, when Ichigo had done so told him that was his favorite, the way he liked it best. 

So, ‘make it wet,’ huh? Ichigo knew a good way to do that. He shoved his mouth down hard, deliberately gagging himself with the head of Grimmjow’s cock against the back of his throat to make his mouth flood with saliva. The sensation and the utterly indecent squelching sound it made sent a spike of arousal through him sharp enough to steal his breath, to make him shiver and leak even as his stomach flopped unhappily. Ichigo whimpered around his mouthful, loving the muffled way the sound came out. 

He pulled back slowly, eyes closed, cheeks hollowing as he sucked, entranced. Grimmjow tasted so good, hot skin and clean water and just a hint of something earthy and bitter, the remnants of last night’s exploits. Ichigo groaned—he shouldn’t be turned on by that, but he so, so was, and if that made him nasty, so be it because he loved the reminder of how Grimmjow had fucked him just hours before, how he’d filled Ichigo’s ass with his come.

That thought driving him, he shoved his mouth back down quickly, roughly, as far as he could without gagging himself. But when he pulled back, he did it slowly, taking care to pucker his lips to make them feel softer and tighter, sucking hard. He felt like he could do this forever, listening to Grimmjow’s low, appreciative sounds.

Grimmjow’s cock felt absolutely massive, so hot and heavy on his tongue; he could feel the central underside ridge and finer veins of it, could almost taste his life’s blood coursing just under the thin skin. This time, when he got to the point where he had just the fat, bulbous head resting in his mouth, he worked his lips back and forth over just that a few times, trying to see if he could earn himself a full-on moan.

First, he’d suck on all of it, swirling his tongue like he was shaping the top of an ice cream cone into a nice symmetrical peak, then he’d pull back to the point where he was only kissing the tip and shove the end of his tongue into the slit, chasing the lingering bitterness of his come and making Grimmjow gasp every time. After he’d repeated this whole process three or four times, Grimmjow was panting and shaky, each exhale coming out halfway to being a moan. Ah, Ichigo thought, close enough. 

Ichigo pulled back and smiled at Grimmjow as he licked the tip of his cock showily, like a lollypop. He was good and he knew it, and he made sure Grimmjow was watching as he took a break to trail sloppy sucking kisses along the up the underside and down the sides of his cock, rubbing his lips and cheeks against it, near worshipful. He’d wanted a break to catch his breath but it wasn’t working, the feeling of the hot, delicate skin against his face was too erotic, too exciting to do anything but leave him breathless.

A broad-fingered hand swept his hair back from his face and he looked up at its owner to find Grimmjow watching him with half-lidded eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Ichigo swallowed him down again as he watched, making a show of it, pushing his lips out and hollowing his cheeks. 

They kept eye contact as Ichigo worked and it felt like they were looking into each other, like Grimmjow could see how much Ichigo enjoyed being the cause of Grimmjow’s pleasure and Ichigo could see how much Grimmjow loved having Ichigo kneeling at his feet. Grimmjow had such expressive eyes, and they spoke volumes about how much Ichigo turned him on right now. His other hand came up to caress Ichigo’s face, to press his fingers to Ichigo’s cheek and feel himself inside, to thumb at the corner of his Ichigo’s mouth where it was stretched open around him.

“So good,” Grimmjow breathed. “Yer so fuckin’ good at this. I dunno if I wanna kill the bastard who taught ya to suck cock like this for gettin’ there before me or give him a fuckin’ medal for being the goddamn teacher of the year. _Shit_ , Ichigo.”

Ichigo couldn’t smile much at the moment, but he damn well tried, picturing Grimmjow hanging medals around the necks of the men who had taught him this skill. They would, Ichigo thought, be highly amused and maybe even a little proud—after all, that’s what any teacher wanted, for the skills they’d taught to be put to good use.

All save one of Ichigo’s encounters with other men (excluding Renji) had been one-night stands with lower-seated officers who seemed to be, more than anything, fans of his. He normally fended off such advances, but unfortunately, he was only human. Or, well, something like that, anyway. But the odd one out, that was a different story. It had been only one night, too, but the term ‘one-night stand’ didn’t do it justice. That night had been something different, something wonderful and unforgettable. It was also the night Ichigo learned how to reduce a grown man to total incoherence with just his mouth.

He’d learned that skill and many, many more, when he’d been taken to bed by a certain longstanding Seireitei couple, both of whom were men. ‘Couple’ wasn’t the right word, exactly; then-Captain Kyouraku and Captain Ukitake’s relationship defied Ichigo’s Earth-raised attempts at categorization. Friends that shared a bed? Yes, but not friends-with-benefits, at least not in the normal meaning of the term. The two of them were real friends, true friends, the kind of friends you only got when you lived side-by-side for centuries upon centuries, and somehow their lovemaking was an expression of that friendship. You could call them lovers, Ichigo supposed. They did love each other, he knew that—it was plain to see in every glance and every touch between them. Maybe there had been romantic love between them once, but its highs and lows had been polished to something smooth and shining with the passage of time, creating something entirely different and equally beautiful.

Whatever you called them, they had been good to him, sharing him between them and pleasuring him halfway to madness, making him come over and over, delighting in having such a responsive and energetic eighteen-year-old in their well-used bed. They’d touched him in places no one else ever had and earned his unending gratitude for the introduction. He’d never been on the bottom before that night, and it had been those two who had taught him how much he liked it. 

They’d taught him a lot of things, introduced him to the wonderful but hard-to-find middle ground between monogamy and meaninglessness. Perhaps even more importantly, they’d taught him that that as well as pleasure, one could seek beauty in bed and find it all the more lovely for its transience. The curve of a lip, the bow of a back, the intricacy of a hand in motion or the echo of a moan in the Seireitei night; they all blended together and formed a wonderful whole, and yet each on its own was a singular taste of perfection, like a single star amid the beauty of the night sky. He would never forget the white-silver gleam of the moonlight on Ukitake’s hair or the taste of wine on Kyouraku’s lips.

They’d been so good to him, gentle and rough in turns but always kind, guiding him with the surety of experienced teachers and the deep understanding possessed only by true masters of the art they taught. He’d never gone back, though he might someday—that was a lesson too, to let it be what it was, a single perfect night, and to take the melancholy ache of its ending as an essential part of its beauty, a backdrop and contrast to the pleasure and joy they’d brought him. 

Even if he never touched them again, he’d always have Kyouraku’s soft murmur of _‘isn’t he_ _beautiful, Juushirou?’_ as he’d lain beside Ichigo, watching, taking a rest as Ukitake introduced an astonished Ichigo to the secret places inside him that made him cry out and clutch desperately at his lovers. He’d always have the ‘o’ of startled pleasure on Ukitake’s face as Kyouraku swallowed him down, still surprised by how good it felt even though they’d done it thousands of times. It had been six years ago now, and he still remembered that night with the kind of clarity reserved only for those few perfect moments in a life. The two of them still taught him—sometimes, his recollection would reveal some facet of meaning that he had been too young to understand at the time and he would smile to himself and thank them in his heart.

“Maybe you just ought to buy them a drink if you ever meet them,” Ichigo offered with a little, secret smile, then licked a long stripe up the underside of Grimmjow’s cock before he could reply, fastening his lips over the place where the head flared out from the shaft, sucking noisily as he lightly but rapidly tongued the taut fold of skin there. Kyouraku had taught him that move, grinning conspiratorially as Ukitake whined low in his throat, his back arching.

Grimmjow thunked his head back against the shower wall with a groan and Ichigo smiled as he went to take him down again. But before he did, he noticed a shining drop of pre-come welling up from his slit. Ichigo’s own cock twitched eagerly and he sucked in a sharp breath—he wasn’t sure if it was left over from sleeping with a woman more times than with a man, but the idea that he was making Grimmjow _wet_ seriously fucking turned him on.

He wanted to make more come out. Ichigo’s pulse picked up, his breathing gone fast and shallow as he imagined Grimmjow’s cock, red and sticky-slick, pumping out more clear fluid, making him so fucking wet, wet like a girl. He couldn’t imagine any sight more arousing right now, and he suddenly _needed_ to see Grimmjow’s cock drooling all over itself, to feel it rubbing oh-so-slippery against his skin. Yeah; oh, _fuck_ yeah, he wanted that. He wanted to rub his and Grimmjow’s together, take them both in his hand and jerk them off, their wetness mingling, mixing together and smearing all over them both. 

To that end, he wrapped his hand around Grimmjow’s cock, something small and hungry inside him quivering in excitement at how little his thumb and fingers overlapped. 

“How do you like it?” Ichigo asked, his voice low and rough as much from his sudden surge of arousal as from having Grimmjow’s cock bruising his throat. “Fast?” 

That’s what Ichigo himself liked best, what he did to himself when he wanted to get off ASAP. Still on his knees in front of him, he jerked Grimmjow off rapidly, quick as he could but keeping to the shaft, not wanting to disturb the droplet that had so grabbed his attention. It was a little different from doing it to himself—he was circumcised where Grimmjow was not, so there was less friction even without any lube. It seemed convenient; Ichigo was jealous.

Grimmjow’s hand in his hair tightened at this onslaught of sensation and his breathing went shaky and labored. A good reaction, but not quite what Ichigo was looking for. Not the reaction such a move would have garnered from him, which told him that Grimmjow’s and his preferences must be a little different.

“Tight?” Ichigo tried, slowing down but tightening his grip, the way Renji liked it best, so tight as to border on uncomfortable by Ichigo’s standards. Ichigo liked to look at it, this way. His hand had been nearly a blur a moment ago, but now he could see how his tight grip pulled the skin of Grimmjow’s cock taut, emphasizing how fantastically hard it was. Ichigo made a needy little noise low in his throat as he got what he was aiming for, more pre-come dribbling out of his slit, several drops of it that dripped down to slick Ichigo’s fingers. His own cock blurted out a pulse of slick as if in sympathy. 

“You like it wet, huh?” Ichigo asked, allowing his fingers to close around the head, twisting his wrist as he stroked it. He wanted to feel more, wetter, so he leaned up to spit on it, stroking slowly to smear the commingled spit and pre-come all over it. He kept to slow and tight, his own cock twitching at the sight of it sliding through his fingers and the feel of it, slick silk over warm marble.

“ _Shit, yeah_ ,” Grimmjow groaned, his eyes shut, the hand that wasn’t in Ichigo’s hair clutching his own. The subtle roll of his hips escalated until he was fucking Ichigo’s fist in earnest—Ichigo lay his free hand over one hip, not to keep him still but to feel the bunch and flex of the muscles there, moving the same way they did when Grimmjow was inside him. 

It made a familiar _schlick-schlick_ sound that was surprisingly loud this close up. He didn’t know how long he was going to be able to keep his mouth off Grimmjow’s cock, the sight was that appealing. Ichigo’s tight grip still kept the skin pulled taut when his hand stroked down to the base, but now it was glistening wet, too, completely and utterly pornographic. Belatedly, Ichigo realized that his breath was sawing in and out of his lungs, too loud, too obviously desperate, and he closed his eyes for a minute to try and get himself under control.

He’d never given anyone a hand job from this angle before—it was far more erotic than he would have guessed. Just being able to look at Grimmjow’s gorgeous cock for so long from so close turned him on, seeing the way it changed, so hard now, its color darkening as his excitement grew, from the same as the rest of his skin to rosy to deep mauve, now, at the tip. 

Down here, too, it felt like he had a channel running from his nose to his most primitive back-brain to his own dick, bypassing anything that had resulted from the past several hundred-thousand years of evolution or so. He loved it, the way Grimmjow’s smell had changed as he got more and more aroused. Now, the scent of his dick, the blood-hot salty pre-come tang of it, mingled together with the alien but innately familiar musky odor of his balls in a way that practically made Ichigo’s head spin.

“Is—“ Ichigo had to stop and clear his throat, willing his voice to work despite his near-overwhelming arousal.

“Is this how you like it?” Ichigo managed. Even to him, his voice sounded so husky as to be nearly unrecognizable. “Tell me. Tell me what gets you off.”

Grimmjow licked his lips, looking like he had to pull himself together to speak, too. “Wetter. Make it wetter.”

He made an unexpected little eager whine as Ichigo spat on his dick again, something Ichigo filed away for future reference. Just a bit more, he decided, and made sure Grimmjow was watching as he gathered up saliva on his tongue and stuck it out to let its wetness drip over Grimmjow’s cock. Much to Ichigo’s pleasure, Grimmjow’s breath got stuck in his throat and he didn’t breathe again until Ichigo had moved away. Seemed like he had a bit of a thing. Good to know.

Ichigo stroked him slowly, twisting his wrist, his eyes sweeping up and down Grimmjow’s body as he looked back and forth between Grimmjow’s cock and his face. “Like this?”

Grimmjow sighed in pleasure, but “ahh…” wasn’t yes, so Ichigo took Grimmjow’s hand with his own free one and guided it to curl around his busy one, the one wrapped around Grimmjow’s cock. “Show me.”

“A little less tight,” Grimmjow murmured, and Ichigo loosened his grip to let Grimmjow set it how he wanted, middling-tight. 

He started to move their hands, setting a steady rhythm of long, sure strokes, not too fast and not too slow. At the crest of each stroke he gave the spongy head of his cock a firm squeeze, fingers closing over it, and at the bottom, he bumped his hand equally firmly against his pubic bone. 

It must feel like he was fucking someone, pulling out nearly the whole way so that, say, the tight ring of muscle around Ichigo’s asshole would squeeze the head of his dick. Then he’d thrust back inside in one smooth stroke, burying himself as deep as he could so that his hips and his balls smacked against Ichigo’s ass. The whole thing, of course, would be made easy and slippery by lots of lube.

Oh, that sounded good. On his hands and knees, Ichigo thought, just taking it and taking it and taking it, letting Grimmjow use his body for his pleasure. Grimmjow was panting openly now as he fucked into Ichigo’s grip, and Ichigo thought _yeah, yeah, give it to me,_ imagining Grimmjow taking him just like this.

“Fuck,” Grimmjow cursed. “I wasn’t gonna let ya—a-ahh—make me come, but…”

“Why not?” Ichigo asked, kind of affronted. He wanted to make Grimmjow come; he wanted that a lot. In his mouth, maybe, or—fuck—all over his face.

“‘Cause if we ever get outta this—nn, _shit_ , Ichigo, fuckin’ jerk that dick, that’s right—this shower, I’m gonna spread you out on the bed and fuck ya good, nice an’ slow like ya asked me for until ya beg for me to give it to ya harder.”

Ichigo groaned, torn. He wanted that. He wanted it so fucking bad he was trembling. But he wanted to see Grimmjow come like this, too…

“But this feels too fuckin’ good. I think,” Grimmjow panted. “When we get outta here, I’m just gonna hafta spend some time lickin’ ya out ’til I’m ready again. Tongue-fuck that sweet ass ’til ya beg for my dick then tongue-fuck it some more, get ya so hot you’ll try an’ ride my fuckin’ face, tryin’a get my tongue deeper in ya. Gonna make ya—oh, fuck, fuck, a little tighter—make ya moan for me so fuckin’ loud. I mean to eat ya out better than any woman I’ve ever had in my bed.”

Arousal flooded Ichigo’s body, pouring out in a hot wave from between his legs to break and fizz over his skin. _Yes…_  

Ichigo bit his lip, eyes falling shut for a moment. He’d always thought getting rimmed felt like the height of decadence, and Grimmjow’s soft, talented tongue licking in and around his overly-sensitized hole would feel absolutely amazing right now. It was a little sore, a little abraded from last night’s rough treatment, and that hot mouth would feel soothing and exquisite. Getting Grimmjow to do it for a goodly long time until Ichigo was burning up with desire sounded like the stuff of dreams.

“Ya like that idea, huh?” Grimmjow asked with a breathless little laugh.

“Yeah,” Ichigo admitted, the word as much a moan as anything. “It’s gonna feel so good… 

He thought his hand was getting a little dry, so Ichigo rose up to spit on Grimmjow’s cock again, but before he could, he had a better idea. He stilled his hand so that it was gripping just the base and took the rest into his mouth, trying to pick up the same rhythm he’d had going with his hand, making it as wet as he could so the excess saliva spilled from the corners of his mouth and coated his chin.

“Shit,” Grimmjow muttered, watching wide-eyed, his expression nearly distressed. “Ah, fuck, _fuck!_ ”

He seized Ichigo’s head between both hands, holding him still. “Shit, I gotta, I fuckin’ got to, jus’ bear with me, _nene_. It ain’t gonna take long.”

He drew back, then fucked into Ichigo’s mouth with a slow, smooth roll of his hips, the expression on his face and the sound he made something Ichigo could only describe as an ecstatic snarl. It was gorgeous, he wanted to look at it forever, at Grimmjow’s face when he was truly overwhelmed with pleasure and need. The sound was a kind of aspirated hiss; an animal sound. Ichigo had done this; he’d put Grimmjow into this state… _yes, yes, yes._

He pushed inside until his cock hit the back of Ichigo’s throat, gagging him a little, then started to withdraw. Ichigo sucked conscientiously, and through his hands on Grimmjow’s hips he could feel the shudder that ran up his body. 

“Wider. Open yer mouth wider. Stick yer tongue out,” Grimmjow growled, and his eyes, his eyes…

Ichigo did as he was bid, opening his mouth wide. The next thrust was much less gentle, the sound of it nasty and wet as it hit the back of his throat. Like this, he couldn’t suck, couldn’t lick, couldn’t do anything but let his mouth be a hole for Grimmjow to fuck. The thought made him groan, the sound interrupted as the head of Grimmjow’s dick pushed into his throat, stoppering his voice and cutting off his air.

He couldn’t even keep from making a mess. Saliva dripped from his mouth and from Grimmjow’s cock every time he pulled out, making long wet strands that stretched to the floor. Grimmjow watched, utterly entranced, holding the base of his cock where he’d batted Ichigo’s hand away, working just the head of it past Ichigo’s lips over and over, fucking Ichigo’s mouth shallowly for as long as he could stand and then shoving all the way inside, his fat cock forcing its way deep into Ichigo’s throat.

It was so noisy, the filthy _schlup-schlup_ sound of it, that Ichigo couldn’t hear what Grimmjow was muttering. Through eyes gone a watery and blurred, he could see Grimmjow’s lips moving and after a moment, he deciphered it as a chant of, “Let me, let me, let me, let me…”

With a broken-sounding moan, Grimmjow let go of his own cock to paw at Ichigo’s head with both hands, tipping it back a little to better look down at him, stroking his face, petting him clumsily, grabbing handfuls of his hair only to let go again as he fucked Ichigo’s mouth with less and less restraint. 

It was very uncomfortable, but Ichigo’s own cock was throbbing, leaking, twitching like mad, and he couldn’t keep his hips still, rocking against nothing. He couldn’t breathe reliably, snatching half a breath here and there when he could, but the lack of oxygen only contributed to his dizzy, dazed arousal. Despite not having the breath to spare, he couldn’t keep from moaning, the sounds coming out garbled and interrupted.

He stared up at Grimmjow’s tear-blurry face, trying to will him to understand the words Ichigo couldn’t say— _fuck me, use me, make yourself come, come on, I want it, I want your come._

Grimmjow’s mouth was hanging wide open and Ichigo could hear his harsh pants over the sticky, filthy suction sound of his cock in Ichigo’s mouth—he looked and sounded so utterly overcome; lost, even, overwhelmed by pleasure as Ichigo just… let him.

Grimmjow seemed to have lost the ability to speak, so he didn’t warn Ichigo before he came, but the signs were clear enough. Grimmjow’s body was shaking as he fucked into Ichigo’s mouth, hard, each thrust accompanied by a grunt of pleasure, each a little more excited than the last. Then his lips pulled back in a grimace and he cried out, then again, louder, and then there was bitter, brackish, body-warm fluid spilling into Ichigo’s mouth as Grimmjow let out a moan so ecstatic that it bordered on a wail. _Yes,_ Ichigo thought, so aroused he felt like he was on the verge of orgasm himself. _Yes, that’s it, come for me, yeah…_

He didn’t stop moving, fucking himself through it in spasmodic little jerks, and Ichigo couldn’t swallow with his mouth open this wide, so Grimmjow’s come spilled from Ichigo’s mouth to coat his chin and drip down onto his body and onto the floor in stringy white strands, covering him in it. Ichigo loved it, loved having it all over him, loved being so thoroughly marked as Grimmjow’s.

Grimmjow sucked down a deep breath as he finally pulled out, half-collapsing to the floor beside Ichigo but not relinquishing his hold on him. Instead, he used it to pull him into a kiss, and it was as gloriously sloppy as what had come before. Grimmjow licked at his mouth and around it, cleaning off the sticky mess of spit and come with his tongue, making little happy rumbling sounds as he worked, shuddering occasionally in the aftermath of his orgasm. Ichigo clung to him hungrily, whimpering, biting at his lips, but he didn’t seem to care.

Grimmjow pulled back with a big, contented sigh, then opened his eyes to look at Ichigo. “You okay, _dulzura?_ ”

“No!” Ichigo cried, his voice low and rough from the abuse of his throat, and Grimmjow drew back, blinking to try and focus, his expression alarmed, clearly worried he’d hurt Ichigo.

But Ichigo just looked down at his lap then back up at Grimmjow, figuring a wail of ‘I need to come!’ would be redundant.

Grimmjow’s eyes widened as they followed his gaze and took in Ichigo’s empurpled, shining-wet cock and his lips parted as he looked back up to meet Ichigo’s eyes, the strangest expression on his face. “You’re like this, from… that?”

Ichigo nodded cautiously, biting his lip, suddenly anxious—Grimmjow was right, surely he oughtn’t be. But then Grimmjow was kissing him again, not the same, sated press of lips as before but suddenly once again ravenous, scraping his teeth bruisingly over Ichigo’s mouth, ravishing him with his tongue. Then he pulled back just as suddenly as he’d come, grinning at Ichigo like a madman as he stroked the side of Ichigo’s face with two fingers, sweeping them down to under his chip, lifting to tip Ichigo’s head up and look him in the eye. He said, “Kinky _dulzura_ likes gettin’ fucked any way he can, huh? Fuckin’ perfect, that’s what you are. Such a fuckin’ good boy.”

Ichigo’s cheeks immediately flushed in embarrassment, and worse still, he failed to suppress his gasp and the subsequent needy whine. Grimmjow thought he was perfect. Grimmjow thought he was a good boy. That was… That was…

A strange warm glow suffused his chest, a… a kind of… a kind of pride, yes. He was proud that Grimmjow thought he was good, that he was perfect, proud that he had pleased him so thoroughly as to make Grimmjow call him sweet names and tell him he was _a good boy_. It was so strange, so… condescending? Patronizing? But Ichigo wasn’t insulted, he was only pleased and proud and so fucking turned on it hurt.

Ichigo wanted to hear more, to hear Grimmjow talk like that forever, but fortunately he didn’t have to examine this strange new desire because all thought was immediately overridden by the reality of what happened next. All of a sudden, before he even knew what was happening, there was a bright blue head in his lap and a soft, wet, startlingly hot mouth engulfing his cock. He flung his head back involuntarily and it banged unpleasantly against the shower wall, but he didn’t care at all because _Grimmjow_ _was_ _sucking his dick_.

“Oh god,” Ichigo mumbled, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…” It felt so good…

Merciless tease Grimmjow wasn’t teasing now. Grimmjow’s long-fingered hand, rough with calluses, held Ichigo’s cock tightly as it stroked him, working in concert with his mouth, jerking it steadily as he bobbed up and down. He worked fast, sucking hard, all his effort turned to the task of making Ichigo come.

Grimmjow might be onto something with this wetter is better thing. Spit dripped down his cock, wetting Grimmjow’s fingers around him and pooling in the hair at the base of his cock, making little rivulets that trickled over his draw-up-tight balls, the almost ticklish sensation making him jerk and shiver. Grimmjow’s hand and mouth on him weren’t just wet but slippery; Ichigo’s cock was drooling, too, leaking slick and copious as it twitched in Grimmjow’s mouth, pre-come and saliva mixing to smear Grimmjow’s lips, his chin, his cheeks, his hand to the wrist and oh, god, he was just covered in Ichigo.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ichigo breathed, feeling something close to awe. He couldn’t believe this was happening right now, overwhelmed and overwrought and babbling incoherent encouragement in a voice gone gravel-rough from having Grimmjow’s dick stuffed down his throat not long ago. “Yeah, suck me, suck my dick, just fucking— _suck it_ —God, Grimmjow, your mouth feels—oh, _fuck—”_

He couldn’t stop talking, and he knew he wasn’t making sense but he felt irrationally like if he stopped talking he’d die from the pleasure. “ _—_ so good, you’re so good, shit, you’re so fucking good… _Grimmjow…_ you make me so hot it’s crazy, shit, so hot I feel like I’m gonna burn up, you gotta make me come before I burn up. Faster, Grimmjow, faster, please, I need it so bad, I need to come, I need—ah— _”_

He was too turned on. He was way too turned on to last more than another minute. It had been so fucking long since he’d had his dick in anybody’s mouth and he couldn’t even last long enough to properly enjoy it… Ichigo was vaguely displeased by this, but he was _not_ about to try and delay his orgasm. He’d just enjoy the hell out of this for the next thirty seconds or whatever and then come so fucking hard in Grimmjow’s hot mouth.

He wanted there to be a lot of it, wanted to come so fucking much that it spilled out of Grimmjow’s mouth, wanted to see it pooled whitely on his tongue like something out of a porno. Ichigo’s hand came up to caress his own neck and chest, smearing the still-wet mixture of spit and come that had dripped all over him across his body and rubbing it into his skin. He wanted Grimmjow to be as covered in him as he was covered in Grimmjow, both of them sticky and filthy and so utterly marked as belonging to each other, their scents so mingled that they became one scent, the smell of them, of their sex. Then he wanted to wash it all away and start over, getting clean just to mess each other up again.

Ichigo realized he had his eyes closed, so he opened them to look at Grimmjow, groaning as he took in the sight. _Look at him,_ Ichigo thought. Grimmjow was fucking devouring him; that’s was what he was doing. Slurping and sucking noisily, holding Ichigo’s hip down with one hand as the other one moved together with his mouth, just eating him up. This actually wasn’t a great angle to see (mostly he was looking at Grimmjow’s hair and a little bit of his hand) so Ichigo shifted a bit and leaned back, brushing Grimmjow’s wet hair out of his face and _oh, shit_ —

His plush lips were stretched so wide around Ichigo’s cock, and he looked for all the world like he was desperate for Ichigo’s come, starving for it, his eyes closed and his eyebrows tipped up in the middle, his cheeks flushed with desire. He had no finesse, no technique, just a perfect hot, wet, sucking mouth that Ichigo could watch his cock disappear inside.  It was moving… Ah, it was moving in and out…

“Fuck!” Ichigo all but yelped, grabbing a handful of Grimmjow’s hair. He could feel it, that familiar tension coiling tight and tighter in the pit of his stomach. Yeah, finally, he was going to get to come. Oh, he was so close. He didn’t even try to hold out, just let it build and build and build like the pressure underneath the cap of a volcano. “Gonna come, oh _shit_ you’re gonna make me come, in your _mouth_ , oh _fuck_ —”

Ichigo’s eyes fell shut and he groaned as his orgasm hit him, but they flew open and went wide as the usually all-too-brief moment stretched on and on, getting more and more intense, keeping him somehow suspended at the peak. He might have been frightened if there was any room for anything else around that all-consuming pleasure, but it took up his whole mind, his whole being. 

His groan escalated into a wail he held on to Grimmjow’s hair for dear life, and then just when he thought he couldn’t take any more it abated. He cried out in relief as a familiar wave of buoyed him up, then another, then another, and he could feel his cock pulsing in time with them, spilling into Grimmjow’s mouth, making it so impossibly hot and wet around him as Grimmjow kept slowly sucking him, drawing it out for him in that brain-meltingly too-good way until he pulled off, caught Ichigo’s eye, smiled, and then swallowed. Swallowed! Grimmjow, swallowing his come, taking it into himself when he had no obligation to do so. Ichigo’s cock gave a near-painful twitch at the thought. 

Ichigo could kiss him, so he pulled him up and did so, pouring his gratitude into it. He felt like he’d melted; that he was here on the shower floor because he’d melted into a puddle of, he didn’t know, butterscotch pudding or something. Butterscotch pudding that was quivering with aftershocks.

Ngh, _wow_. He’d been so excited before Grimmjow had even started, and then… _Shit_. Ichigo’s mind shied away from the mental image of Grimmjow’s mouth on him, rejecting it as too arousing just now. This _el juramento_ thing had its bad points, but he’d had the most spectacular orgasms since it had begun, and even more so since Grimmjow had shown up. He felt awesome; incredibly relaxed despite being slumped against the hard tile wall and floor with the shower still, well, showering him. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep right now, cuddled up with Grimmjow. They might drown, but he was so drowsy all of a sudden that he wasn’t particularly worried about it.

Since lying down was out, they could stick with kissing for a little while longer. It was glorious, both of their mouths wide open and tasting of each other, lips soft and wet as they pressed them uncoordinatedly together. Grimmjow’s tongue stroked along his and Ichigo returned the caress sloppily, sleepily, murmuring little happy noises into Grimmjow’s mouth. Seriously, just wow.

“Now, are ya okay?” Grimmjow asked when they broke apart, grinning.

“Okay? Am I okay, he asks. I’m _awesome_ ,” Ichigo murmured dopily, grinning back. Then, somewhat disconsolately, he added, “Sometime, though, will you do that when I can enjoy it for more than two minutes? First blowjob I’ve had in ages and I go off like a goddamn teenager…”

Grimmjow smiled wolfishly as he got to his feet and extended a hand to pull Ichigo up as well. “Careful what ya wish for, there, Kurosaki. Makin’ ‘em wait an’ wait an’ wait is my specialty, yanno. Mmm, all that writhin’, all that beggin’… I fuckin’ love it. I’m jus’ going easy on ya because o’ yer condition—if ya keep askin’ for more than a minute, ya might get an hour.”

An hour. Oh, god, that sounded torturous. Wonderful and torturous and possibly lethal, but at least he would probably get to lay down for it. Laying down sounded very appealing just now. Ichigo sagged against Grimmjow, licking idly at a few droplets of water clinging to his shoulder. He abruptly found himself being swung around so as to be under the spray, with water pouring onto his head before he was ready. 

He sputtered and stepped out of it again, slicking his now thoroughly wet hair back to get it out of his eyes. Grimmjow stepped back a pace and looked at him, lips twitching. “Ya ever seen a fluffy cat that got wet?” 

Ichigo scowled, not amused. 

This had exactly the opposite effect than he intended, only increasing Grimmjow’s mirth. “Yeah, they make exactly that face!” he exclaimed, grinning. 

The only possible response Ichigo could have for such impertinence was to grab Grimmjow and swing him around, holding him under the water until his hair was sopping wet, plastered to the sides of his head. But when he slicked his back, it only served to emphasize his sharp cheekbones and bright eyes, the masculine cut of his jaw. It didn’t make Ichigo want to laugh at all, it only made him want to touch. Totally unfair.

He stepped closer and looked up at Grimmjow, desire hitting him hard enough to steal his breath. Grimmjow was just so fucking gorgeous, and the fact that Ichigo could touch him as much as he wanted made him feel like a starving, penniless man admitted to a sumptuous banquet and told to eat as much as he liked, free of charge. Their eyes locked together, Ichigo ran his hands up Grimmjow’s chest, his entire capacity for sensory processing taken up by Grimmjow’s gaze and the input from the nerves in his hands. He felt his fingertips sweeping water droplets aside, felt the slippery, almost rubber-like wetness of his skin that made Ichigo want to rub his whole body against him, felt the reassuring warmth of his body, the thing that housed another living soul, and felt the ridges and valleys that showed the thrilling physical strength of him.

He’d heard that there was a famous museum on Earth where it would take a skilled connoisseur of art a year to see everything, but Ichigo was sure he could spend decades learning Grimmjow’s body. 

The strange thing was that Grimmjow seemed just as addicted to touching Ichigo as Ichigo was to touching him. His fingertips trailed over the wings of Ichigo’s shoulder blades and the notches of his spine, his palms skimmed over the curve of the small of his back and the swell of his ass, his arms tightened around Ichigo to pull him close and drink the water from the hollow of his collarbone.

Was it possible, Ichigo wondered, that Grimmjow had been living in the same state of deprivation as he? Or something similar, perhaps—Ichigo found it inconceivable that the man could be lacking for partners, but this whole time he’d had the impression that he was being allowed a rare privilege, being allowed to touch Grimmjow’s body, kiss him and even speak to him in ways that others were not. Perhaps Ichigo’s vulnerable state allowed Grimmjow to show unaccustomed warmth, maybe he was ordinarily a skilled but impersonal lover. Perhaps he was lacking in the kind of partners he could idly touch for the sheer animal enjoyment of skin-to-skin contact.

Well, if Grimmjow wanted to touch him for whatever reason, Ichigo wasn’t complaining. He nuzzled Grimmjow’s throat and tucked his face in the crook of his neck, content to just stand there together and let warm water course over their skins. They could finish washing up in a minute.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Week on El Juramento:  
> In the final installment of the Sexy Middle Part of this story, Ichigo gets just what he asked for.


	10. Show You What All That Howl Is For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmjow tries to give Ichigo what he wants, but keeps getting distracted by feelings of various kinds.
> 
> Ichigo holds on for the ride, learns new things about himself, and gets what he asked for, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, at long last, the climax of the sexy middle part. Sorry it took so long, I had a really hard time with this chapter. (No pun intended.) (Ok, I lied, pun totally intended.) But hey, this is a super-duper extra long chapter to make up for it! It's so long in part because you get both sides of the story this time, in part because sex. : D  
> Hope you like smut and feelings! Because that's what's in this chapter, and boy is there a lot of it. Next time, we'll get back to things happening story-wise. Events will progress.
> 
> Because I've been doing such extensive revisions, I haven't had time to write the four or five chapters that of this story that still need written, even in first draft form. For that reason as well as the fact that I need to work on things in my actual real life, I'm scaling EJ back to bi-weekly. Sorry! But I figure you guys would probably rather have less frequent updates than lower quality updates.
> 
> I have had more requests for a "Solutions" continuation than I expected, so that might be happening, too. 
> 
> You guys know what phrase isn't sexy at all? Butt cheeks.  
> Also did you know this story shares a name with a telenovela? Fun fact.

Grimmjow slowly dragged the washcloth over Ichigo’s skin, cleaning him head to toe, unable to hide the near-reverence in his touch or the probably really stupid-looking grin on his face. Ichigo, Ichigo, lovely Ichigo—ah, Grimmjow was as happy as a sand lizard in its hole right now. As happy as a post-coital sand lizard curled up with another sand lizard it had just fucked (did sand lizards fuck?) in its cozy little desert hole. Ah, that had been _great_. Grimmjow considered himself something of a connoisseur of blowjobs—a man in his position was never short on people who wanted to suck his dick, after all—and that had been a truly excellent one. Ichigo, bless his heart (and, more importantly, his _mouth_ ) had hit just the right balance of technique, enthusiasm, and looking sexy as hell on his knees.

Even better and even more remarkably, he hadn’t protested when Grimmjow had taken over at the end—not just that, but he had _liked_ it. Evidently, he’d liked it a lot. Even though Grimmjow had been far rougher than he’d meant to be, afterwards, Ichigo had just sat there in a desperately aroused daze with tears and spit and Grimmjow’s come all over his face and this massive fucking hard-on—seriously, that thing looked like it had hurt, practically purple and leaking like crazy—and that pretty much made him a keeper all on its own. (And it had been so cute how he’d barely lasted a minute when Grimmjow had decided to help him out with that.)

It was just a thing with Grimmjow, that he had a hard time getting off if he couldn’t move his hips, if he couldn’t _fuck,_ and even if he did come while staying still, it was never as satisfying. Just for the last couple minutes or so, that was all he needed, but sometimes this pissed off his partners. They tended to take it as an indication that he didn’t think they were skilled enough or something, though he didn’t mean it like that. Ichigo, however, had seemed to take it as a sign that Grimmjow was really enjoying himself and thus had been pleased.

Ah, it had been great. Grimmjow was having a hard time thinking about anything other than how great it had been. The inside of his head basically went: “Ichigo gave me a blowjob, it was great; Ichigo, blowjob, great” on and on, repeating ad infinitum, interspersed with occasional image-memories of the way Ichigo’s lips had looked stretched around his dick or the way Ichigo had looked up at him, his eyes pleading like he just _needed_ Grimmjow to fuck his mouth some more.

Would it be terribly selfish and make him a bad _fideicomissario_ if he coaxed another one of those out of Ichigo later, or maybe tomorrow? Ichigo had seemed to enjoy doing it, so maybe it was okay, and no man could hold it against him if he knew how absolutely goddamn great that had been. Maybe he should get Ichigo to open himself up while he worked, fingers in his ass, getting himself ready so Grimmjow could end it by fucking him and making them both come. That sure sounded like it would be okay. Acceptable _fideicomissario_ behavior, he meant. It would be way the hell more than _okay._

Grimmjow was brought out of his reverie by hands on his shoulders, one pulling forward and the other pushing back. Ah, Ichigo wanted him to turn around. While he had been half-coherently soaping Ichigo’s body, Ichigo had been doing the same to him, and apparently it was time for his back to be washed. Obligingly, Grimmjow turned around.

“You have a really, _really_ nice back,” Ichigo commented approvingly, running his soapy hands up and down it, tracing the outlines of his musculature, then cupping his butt. “And a nice ass. Very firm. Not too flat.” 

Apparently unable to resist, Ichigo plastered himself to Grimmjow’s back, his perpetually half-hard cock pressing to the cleft of Grimmjow’s ass. Grimmjow stiffened and draw in a sharp breath, unsure whether it was in preparation to protest or what. This made him kind of… uneasy.  Surely Ichigo didn’t think…

“Okay, okay,” Ichigo said, laughing at Grimmjow’s discomfort as he drew back. “Your ass is safe from me. _For now_.”

For now? It occurred to Grimmjow (rather belatedly, he thought with mild alarm) that Humans and Shinigami might have different conventions from his own people about these kind of things. Maybe Ichigo really did think he was going to fuck Grimmjow at some point? The idea made his stomach wiggle around in a way he couldn’t really identify.

He felt Ichigo’s soapy hands rubbing across across his back again and decided to think about it later. It was a complicated issue—he would _never_ allow one of his other sworn men such a privilege, but Ichigo wasn’t really his sworn man. He was outside their whole system of military and social hierarchy, so perhaps Grimmjow could allow it. Perhaps. Then that would leave him with the question of whether he wanted it, and that was a question he didn’t know the answer to. The answer that most immediately suggested itself was “Of course not!” but Grimmjow didn’t feel the force of it the way he imagined he ought to. The concept was not, he was surprised to realize, totally repulsive.

“Ow!” Grimmjow yelped, startled. There was a stinging sensation on one of his butt cheeks. It didn’t really hurt, but it had definitely been surprising. The sensation resolved itself into two mildly stinging arcs, and there was only one thing he could think of that would have caused it. Ichigo just _bit_ him on the _ass_. 

Grimmjow turned around with a growl and hauled Ichigo up by the shoulders, shoved him against the shower wall, and sank his teeth into the join of his neck and shoulder in retaliation. Unexpectedly, Ichigo stiffened for just a moment and then melted against him with a breathy, excited little noise, his cock twitching with enthusiasm for this development against Grimmjow’s hip, struggling back to full hardness. As a punishment, this didn’t appear to be very effective. Quite ineffective, in fact. As a strategy to turn Ichigo on, it was clearly _very_ effective.

Grimmjow let go, laving the bite with his tongue, feeling the imprint of his teeth on Ichigo’s skin. When he pulled back to look at Ichigo, he saw that his pupils were blown wide and his cheeks were flushed and his red, bruised mouth was a little open. _Shit._

 _“_ You know what? We’re clean enough,” Grimmjow decided, reaching over to aim the spray nozzle at them for a second to make sure they were rinsed, and then turning off the shower decisively. He wanted Ichigo on his back _right the fuck now,_ and that wasn’t happening in here.

Ichigo started to shiver as soon as they were out of the steamy shower cubicle. They’d been in there for way too long, and now the perfectly reasonable air temperature felt too cold. Grimmjow was cold, too, and he hated being cold. Ichigo was still a bit feverish, though, so it must be worse for him.

“Are you s-seriously pissed?” Ichigo asked as he hurriedly dried himself off, struggling against teeth that wanted to chatter. 

“No,” Grimmjow replied, pausing in his toweling of his hair. He wasn’t pissed, he was just turned on. Ichigo’s reaction to being bitten had taken priority over his own reaction to Ichigo’s playful bite. “I’m seriously about to spread ya out and bite ya all over because apparently yer a kinky little slut who likes it when I show my teeth.”

“Oh,” Ichigo replied faintly. “That’s… good, then.” 

Grimmjow snorted a small laugh and said, “Go get under the covers before ya freeze to death or somethin’. I’ll be in in just a second.” 

He darted off and Grimmjow finished drying himself off, thinking about how wonderfully hot Ichigo’s skin would feel against his underneath the blankets. He shivered and headed off to join his lover.

* * *

Ichigo dove into the still slightly warm bed, curled up on his side and shivered, waiting, slowly warming up until Grimmjow slid under the covers and joined him moments later. His skin was blazingly hot as he pulled Ichigo to him, uncurling him, and his mouth was scalding as they kissed, wonderful, and Ichigo pressed himself as close as he could, his arms as tight around Grimmjow’s back as Grimmjow’s were around his; tighter, even, as he sought to warm himself.

Ichigo kissed hard but Grimmjow gentled him as he rolled them so Ichigo was underneath, his legs parting automatically around Grimmjow’s hips, making room for him. Grimmjow’s mouth was so hot, impossibly hot in contrast to Ichigo’s still-shivering body, and he licked into it desperately, seeking warmth, forcing Grimmjow’s jaw wide to burrow inward. 

But Grimmjow held Ichigo’s face still with one big, warm hand; held his body in place with his own, his mouth pulling back a little to kiss Ichigo slow and sweet. Ichigo could still taste himself a little on Grimmjow’s tongue, he was effectively immobilized under Grimmjow, and it was all so… so… He wanted them closer.

“Relax,” Grimmjow murmured. “You’ll stop shiverin’ if ya relax. I got you, _dulzura_.”

Ichigo took a deep breath and tried to do as Grimmjow asked. Grimmjow was right, actually—he was much warmer than he had been, the bed and blankets trapping his and Grimmjow’s body heat.

“There ya go. It’s nice an’ warm here, huh? Just focus on what we’re doin’.

When Grimmjow next kissed him, Ichigo didn’t try to push for harder-faster-more, just met each press of lips and curl of tongue as they came, one after the other, slow as molasses. He had no idea what had happened to Grimmjow’s sudden, violent enthusiasm that had ended their shower, but this was quite wonderful, so he wasn’t complaining.

Fighting the urge to tense up and shiver stopped being an effort after a while, and then there was just this, just the kiss, just their twining tongues and Grimmjow’s teeth tugging at his bottom lip. The room was silent except for the soft, sticky sounds of their mouths meeting, coming apart, and meeting again. The only other sound was their breathing, small breaths snatched between kisses, quick so as to be separated no longer than necessary.

After what felt like a long, long time, though Ichigo couldn’t be sure, they broke apart by a finger’s width, lightheaded from too much desire and not enough air. They were both breathing hard, the space between them warm and humid with exhalation, Grimmjow’s forehead leaning against Ichigo’s for a moment before he pulled back further. 

Ichigo opened his eyes to see blue, blue, blue as Grimmjow caressed his face, those eyes drawing him in and turning him breathless all over again as a callused thumb toyed with his lips. Ichigo licked at it, finding that it still tasted like clean water and soap, and saw the corners of Grimmjow’s reddened mouth turn up. Then that same hand was sliding into his hair to tip his head to the side, and though Ichigo wasn’t cold anymore Grimmjow’s mouth still seemed impossibly hot on his neck. 

There was a small, sharp flare of sensation, almost the same as before, in the shower, but this time it was followed up by a sweet ache as Grimmjow sucked to raise a bruise on the skin he had caught between his teeth. Ichigo moaned, helpless—it hurt, sort of, but it felt good, too. So good.

But he had a feeling that Grimmjow was holding back, and he also had a feeling that he would like the sensation even better if there was more of it. So when Grimmjow pulled back, Ichigo said, “Don’t be careful with me. You told me not to hold back, so you can’t either. Do it how you want to—I’ll tell you if it’s too hard.”

Grimmjow let out a shaky breath and caressed Ichigo’s face with his hand. He seemed to be about to say something but thought better of it and leaned down again, finding a spot a little higher on Ichigo’s neck. He kissed it, open-mouthed, sucking lightly, and Ichigo didn’t know if Grimmjow was teasing him on purpose or not but come on, come _on—_

Grimmjow bit down and Ichigo cried out at the sudden sting, then gasped in a breath as Grimmjow began to suckle and worry the bit of Ichigo’s skin he had between his teeth. This time, it clearly hurt, but it still felt so, _so_ good. Ichigo brought a hand up to stroke Grimmjow’s hair in a wordless demonstration of approval because words failed him just now. Well, he had a couple that ought to do, the only ones he could think of. “I _want_.”

Grimmjow worked his way up Ichigo’s neck with three sharp nips and then another long, lingering, sucking bite. Ichigo couldn’t resist arching his hips up to rub his cock against Grimmjow’s belly—even after just that first bite in the shower he’d been all the way hard again, ready, needing it.

The next bite came to the thin skin of his collarbone and the one after that to one of his pecs. Ichigo could barely think, he was so turned on. He’d had lovers nip a little and suck to give him a hickey or two in the past and liked it a lot, but this, this was—

“Fuck!” Ichigo cried out at the sensation of Grimmjow’s teeth closing around the small, sensitized bud of his nipple, biting down hard. Ichigo held tight to his hair, whimpering not from the pain but because he was so turned on. He didn’t know how to describe it, other than that it hurt pure and sharp and good, the bright flashes of pain and the lingering aches like some new species of pleasure that they had just discovered, sending electric bolts of lust arcing, sparking down his spine to his cock. It was incredibly, intensely, improbably arousing.

His skin felt flushed and hot all over and his cock was already aching even though the’d only been at this for a few minutes, swollen heavy and hot between them, so wet, drooling a little puddle onto Ichigo’s belly and smearing against Grimmjow’s skin. He wanted Grimmjow to touch him, wanted Grimmjow to jerk him off while he kept on biting Ichigo’s neck and chest. He wanted to be covered in sucker-bite bruises and reddened half-moons, wanted more and more and more. 

It didn’t feel kinky, didn’t feel dirty and strange—Ichigo felt cared for and like he was drowning in want and Grimmjow’s touch. Everything felt slow like they were moving through honey and just as sweet. It was like his dream, almost, like what he’d asked for. His chest felt like it might burst, he wanted them closer so badly. _Grimmjow,_ he thought, _Grimmjow, please, Grimmjow!_

Aloud, he could only whisper, “Harder.”

Grimmjow groaned and flicked his eyes up to Ichigo’s, making him gasp because Grimmjow looked as wrecked as Ichigo felt, but he only saw him for a minute before Grimmjow’s mouth was on his, kissing him like a starving man, his sharp, wonderful teeth biting down on Ichigo’s lip, hard enough to make the thin skin split under the pressure and turn their kiss coppery.

Grimmjow groaned a needy, hungry sound, and rocked against him, squeezing Ichigo’s lip with his teeth and then lapping at it, tasting him, taking Ichigo into himself, more intimate than when he’d swallowed Ichigo’s come.

“Touch me,” Ichigo begged, his lips brushing Grimmjow’s. “please, touch me. I need, Grimmjow, I’m so—I dunno, just… I know it’s too soon, but I want to come.“

* * *

This was the part where he held off, refused to touch, refused to please, got his partner to let him hurt them more, more, as much as Grimmjow wanted in the hope he’d make them come eventually, which he always did.

That was his MO—work them up, get them so hot they were halfway to crazy, then do whatever he felt like doing to them, be it confusing their senses with pleasure and pain or edging them to the point of delirious submission; be it fucking them as hard as he wanted or jerking off right in front of their face as they begged for his dick. Then, after that, he’d make them come their fucking brains out, so good and so hard that they nearly always came back for more.

But this was different. Ichigo just let him do whatever the fuck he wanted in the first place and took it all, loved it all and asked for more. Grimmjow didn’t really know what to do with that. Covering a lover in bites was a middle part option, not a first part option. It was something that he might ordinarily do after he’d got that lover good and worked up, not the thing that he used to get them into that state.

Grimmjow didn’t fuck masochists as a rule—it took all the fun out of it, in his opinion. Pain was definitionally a thing to be disliked, and if his partner liked it, then that meant he wasn’t inflicting pain. That wasn’t always what Grimmjow wanted to do—sometimes he just wanted straight-up sex—but when he was craving whimpers and tears and _pleasepleaseplease,_ he wanted it for real.

He much preferred to rely on his skills in the art of pleasure to get him what he wanted via a mix of confusion and bribery. Ordinary, non-masochistic people would tolerate quite a bit if they needed to get off badly enough, and over the years, he’d become quite adept at feeling out those limits and stretching them to just short of the snapping point, just short of the point where the pleasure wasn’t worth it anymore. 

But Grimmjow sure was having fun now, despite—because of?—the way Ichigo so liked what he was doing. Today he was the one confused, his head spinning as he tried to figure out just what was going on here. Ichigo didn’t seem like a masochist, not really, not a true masochist, anyway. Just the type that liked a little spice with his sugar, perhaps? Or maybe it wasn’t the pain, per se, that made him like this so much, but something else. Or, hell, maybe he just had a fetish for biting and that was the end of it. Grimmjow didn’t know.

For Grimmjow’s part, he decided that he was perfectly happy with not really hurting Ichigo right now, despite the appearance of doing so. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to—oh, did he _ever_ want to. When Grimmjow’s honor as _fideicomissario_ wasn’t on the line, Ichigo should watch out. The things Grimmjow wanted to do to that boy… Of course, Ichigo would end up quite pleased with the experience by the end of it, that was Grimmjow’s cardinal rule, but before that, well…

But here was where it got extra confusing. Despite all those familiar, dark wants, he enjoyed pleasing Ichigo as much as he knew he would enjoy all those other things. He always enjoyed providing pleasure, but it was usually more about his ego or his control over the situation. And those things were still a factor, but with Ichigo he liked making him feel good for simply for its own sake. Ichigo was a lovely creature, and Grimmjow thought he deserved all the pleasure in the world. The world was a better place when Ichigo was enjoying himself.

He didn’t just like _pleasuring_ Ichigo, he liked _pleasing_ him. That was very unusual for him—with a few exceptions, he didn’t much care about making other people happy and doing what they wanted him to do. Sometimes, in fact, he went out of his way to avoid it. But Ichigo’s approval, how much he seemed to _like_ Grimmjow felt like the sun-warmth some long-buried seed in his heart needed to germinate. Most of Grimmjow’s repeat lovers didn’t like him—more often than not, they hated him for what he made them, but came back anyway and kept coming until he’d broken them so thoroughly that they bored him.

And while that process was greatly enjoyable—who wouldn’t like knowing he was just that good?—this was something entirely different and maybe even better. It felt fragile and new like that seed had grown into a small, thin-stemmed sprout, which was a little terrifying because Grimmjow knew what happened to tender sprouts when the uncaring boots of reality trod on them. It made him want to handle what was between them with the greatest of care until it grew strong and tall like Grimmjow knew it could. It made him want to touch Ichigo softly like he was made of glass, made him want to pour his unaccustomed depth of feeling into their kisses, made him want to join their bodies together and stay like that for as long as he could, sinking into each other.

Grimmjow had taken lovers that he’d wanted to cruelly use, and, less frequently, lovers that he’d wanted to hold close and cherish. But wanting to do both at the same time was a new experience for him, and the idea that Ichigo was so constituted that the possibilities were not mutually exclusive was such good fortune as to be downright awe-inspiring.

Fuck it, Grimmjow decided. There was nothing he could do by trying to figure this out, especially now of all times. They’d make something work or they wouldn’t. Growing things grew or they didn’t, all he could do was wait and see how that little heart-sprout did. Maybe it would be crushed or just die, unable to grow in such infertile soil, or maybe it would grow straight and true. Maybe it would grow but become as twisted and gnarled as the rest of his heart, but he’d never seen one of its kind manage to grow into more than a sapling, so perhaps it would grow into some shape he couldn’t even imagine.

* * *

After a few seconds of inexplicable hesitation, Grimmjow surged forward with renewed urgency and a rough, desperate sound. He kissed Ichigo, hard, as he took Ichigo’s cock in hand and began to stroke it, slippery because Ichigo was so fucking wet.

Ichigo closed his eyes so Grimmjow wouldn’t see them roll back into his head as Grimmjow’s hand picked up a steady rhythm. _Fuck_ and _Grimmjow_ and _yes_ were all he could think, and all he could do was moan into their kiss and plant his feet on the bed to fuck up into Grimmjow’s tight, slick grip, all clumsy desperation like a man who hadn’t had sex in years.

There was a fire in Ichigo’s belly now and he needed to expel it, needed to fuck, needed to come, and this wasn’t enough. Ichigo rolled them, tangling the blankets around them and throwing the constricting covers off as he rose to kneel over Grimmjow, straddling him. Grimmjow looked up at him, surprised, but he didn’t stop stroking Ichigo until Ichigo stilled his hand and took over the motion with his hips.

Grimmjow watched him, his eyes dark and hungry and somehow a little curious, roving over Ichigo’s face and body, seeming especially interested in watching the way the his abs tensed and his hips rocked as he sought his pleasure. After he’d got his fill of watching Ichigo fuck his fist, Grimmjow’s gaze met Ichigo’s and locked there, so magnetic that Ichigo couldn’t look away if he wanted to. That made it better; oh, that made it so much better—they were farther apart now, physically, not so much skin touching, but Grimmjow’s eyes _saw_ him and his eyes saw Grimmjow and that kept them so close, closer than they’d been even when they were touching head to toe.

They stayed locked that way as Grimmjow lifted one of Ichigo’s hands to his mouth—no, one of his arms. He kissed Ichigo’s wrist, the sensitive inside of it, trailing kisses up over the veins in his forearm, dragging his lips and his broad, flat tongue over Ichigo’s skin. 

By this time, Ichigo hips were snapping violently as he sought his release and he had to brace Grimmjow’s hand with his own to keep it where he wanted it. Grimmjow just kept licking and kissing him, and anticipation spurring Ichigo on; harder, faster. _Come on_ , Ichigo thought, _bite down. Bite me, please._

He was going to be so pissed if he came before Grimmjow fucking got on with it, but he wasn’t about to demand that Grimmjow bite him. Seriously, he was not going to do that. A light nip made him gasp, his belly tensing, his skin prickling and starting to flush hot as his orgasm built inside him slowly, so slow, he could feel it coming but it wasn’t quite—come on, come on—

Grimmjow’s hand was so big that it covered nearly Ichigo’s entire dick and the friction of their skin made it feel hot, so hot, squeezing him like he was fucking deep into some impossibly tight cunt. Ichigo’s own hand that braced Grimmjow’s curved around the back so when he fucked into the tight tunnel of his fingers hard enough to feel the side of Grimmjow’s hand smack against his pubic bone, the head of his dick smacked into his palm, a shock of sensation that rolled up his spine to spark behind his eyes, eyes that were still locked on Grimmjow’s.

Grimmjow did a thing with his fingers, rippling, somehow, fluttering, hot around him like Ichigo was making that impossible cunt quiver and spasm. Like it was milking him; god, milking him so hard, hungry for his come, desperate to be filled up sticky-nasty-his, and Grimmjow’s eyes were on him so it must be Grimmjow who wanted his come, _shit,_ oh shit, _Grimmjow—_  

The thought bounced and echoed around his otherwise empty head in time with his rapid heartbeat and the snap of his hips; _Grimmjow wanted his come, Grimmjow wanted his come, Grimmjow wanted his come,_ and shit, Ichigo was going to give it to him.

“You want it?” Ichigo breathed, so fucking turned on imagining it spattered over Grimmjow’s belly and chest—he knew he was going to come so hard, come so hard for Grimmjow, come all over him.

“Yeah, _nene,_ give it to me,” Grimmjow answered, and in the part of Ichigo’s field of vision that wasn’t taken up by the blackness of Grimmjow’s swollen pupils and the electric blue of his irises, he could see Grimmjow’s shining spit-wet lips curving up like the smug motherfucker he was as he licked Ichigo’s wrist teasingly.

“Give you what? What is it you want?” Ichigo panted, knowing this was way off-script for them and not caring at all because he wanted to hear Grimmjow say it so much.

Grimmjow’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and, Ichigo thought, arousal. His voice was low and rough and thick as he replied, “I want ya to come for me. I fuckin’… I want yer come, _dulzura_. I want to feel it on my skin.”

Fuck. Ohfuckohfuckoh _fuck!_ He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this but he needed it, he fucking needed, it, okay? The words felt like they were being ripped out of him, pulling loose some dam that held back the great tide he could feel surging at the base of his spine. “Then fucking _bite down_ , you _bastard!”_

Grimmjow groaned and then there was a sharp flare of pain, brighter, more intense than any that had come before it, his skin tearing under Grimmjow’s teeth and he was coming, his dick jerking as it spat out the first spurt of his come. He pulled his hand away to let it shoot onto Grimmjow’s belly, making him hiss and twitch as it hit the rim of his _agujero_ and dripped down the wall of it.

Ichigo fucked himself through it shallowly, half doubled over, panting loudly, consumed by pleasure, forcing his eyes to stay open so he could watch himself come all over Grimmjow’s body. The second spurt went all the way up to Grimmjow’s neck, the hot, filthy wad of it pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Ichigo moaned—he’d never seen anything so erotic—and he felt his dick spasm violently against Grimmjow’s fingers as it pumped out the last of his load to coat his cock and Grimmjow’s hand, dripping down the inside of his wrist. Ichigo groaned, wrung out, wrung dry.

He was trembling as he tried to get his breath back, failing because every time he looked at Grimmjow, he was just _lying there_ looking smug with _Ichigo’s come all over him_. Ichigo tried to form his appreciation for this sight into something coherent but all he got was _fuck_ and _damn_ and _so fucking hot._ That was as coherent as it got, apparently. Every time he looked, every time he thought about it Ichigo’s dick twitched almost painfully, struggling valiantly to retain its fully aroused state even as Grimmjow let him go. 

C’mon, seriously—who didn’t love a good money shot? Grimmjow looked smug but Ichigo fucking felt it, because Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was lying there covered in _Ichigo’s_ come, not anybody else’s. He’d always tried to restrain his possessive side but it seemed this was too much for him—the unaccustomed satisfaction of marking Grimmjow his in the most primal way possible thrummed through him like the first sip of something hot, sweet, and highly alcoholic after coming in on a cold winter night, warming him, intoxicating and delicious.

Grimmjow was still watching him, still licking at the spot on the inside of Ichigo’s forearm, just a few inches above the wrist, where he’d bitten him. The rasping of his tongue sent little shivers of pain (nearly unrecognizable as such because he felt _so fucking good right now_ ) running through him, and Ichigo realized by the way it felt that Grimmjow really had broken the skin this time. He didn’t get why that excited him even now, but it did.

Ichigo grabbed Grimmjow’s hand, the one that was covered in his come, searched out the drop of it that had rolled down his wrist and ran his tongue up the inside of Grimmjow’s forearm to lap it up. Grimmjow’s tongue momentarily fell still against Ichigo’s skin as he watched Ichigo begin methodically licking his hand clean. 

Fortunately, it had only just started to cool, so it wasn’t too slimy and disgusting, and the intensely bitter taste of it was entirely worth it for the hungry look on Grimmjow’s face as Ichigo first licked his palm clean and then sucked what remained off each of his fingers, one by one, starting with the pinkie and ending with the thumb. Oh yeah, Grimmjow had definitely gained a healthy appreciation for Ichigo’s mouth, judging by the way his breath caught in his throat when Ichigo lingered over his fingers a little longer than necessary, bobbing up and down.

When he had finished, Grimmjow pulled him down into a kiss, one of those strange uneven ones, half-sated and half-excited. Ichigo pressed his lips joyously, messily to Grimmjow’s, spreading the taste of his own come, but Grimmjow’s mouth was hungry and invasive, plunging his tongue past Ichigo’s lips, practically fucking his mouth with it, carrying with it the taste of Ichigo’s blood. It was the strangest tasting kiss he’d ever had in his life, metallic and bitter and doubly salty. And okay, yeah, that was actually pretty hot.

He still couldn’t believe that Grimmjow biting him hard enough to draw blood was what had finally pushed him over the edge. Here was Ichigo, learning all kinds of things about himself… Yay? He didn’t really think he could blame this one on _el juramento,_ though he would damn well try if pressed for an explanation.

Ichigo pulled back and looked at the bite on his arm curiously. It didn’t look too deep, but it was deep enough that it was still bleeding sluggishly, blood welling up to fill the embrasures left by Grimmjow’s teeth. Ichigo liked it. He was pleased that he could carry it around with him as a souvenir for a few weeks. He’d better clean it at some point and maybe even bandage it, but he didn’t need to do that right now. 

He was covered in Grimmjow’s bite marks, and Grimmjow was covered in his come. That… that was fucking _satisfying._ They were all messed up and all covered in each other and that was pretty damn great, if you asked—wah!

Ichigo abruptly found himself back on his back, looking up at Grimmjow’s face. There was a red smear at one corner of his mouth, and Ichigo leaned up to lick it away. In their previous positions, he had been too far forward to notice Grimmjow’s cock much, but it was sure noticeable now, pressing eagerly against Ichigo’s hip. Good to know that little exercise had excited him. 

A few lukewarm drops of thick fluid landed on Ichigo in the general vicinity of his upper chest, spilling from the small puddle in the hollow of Grimmjow’s collarbone. That was kind of gross, but he didn’t mind. He kind of wanted to see how much of a mess they would end up by the end of this, because he knew it was a long way from being over. 

“You wanna fuck me?” Ichigo offered, feeling too mellow and content for it to come out any other way but casual. He’d like that; Grimmjow’s big, fat dick opening him up so damn wide like it had last night. He was sure he wouldn’t stay mellow for long with that thing inside him. 

“Mmm, not yet,” Grimmjow decided, moving off him. He explained, “We ain’t gettin’ anywhere fast if I get off every time you do. I’m aimin’ for 1:4 this time, but I might have to settle for 1:3 because yer so damn fuckable.”

Oh. Well, Ichigo was hardly going to complain about more orgasms, though it did seem unfair. Although he supposed he’d had a ratio like that that time he’d half-drunkenly let himself get pounced on by Yoruichi, and he had hardly felt cheated with her hands in his hair holding his face against her pussy. ( _Heh, pussy,_ Ichigo thought, suppressing a smile. Because she was, you know, sometimes a cat.)

A little sheepishly, Grimmjow added, “I know I got stamina somewhere, I just seem to have trouble findin’ it when I’m with ya.”

Ichigo didn’t suppress his smile at that. That was one of the good things about sleeping with the same sex—you understood a compliment like that when you got one. 

Grimmjow pulled a couple pillows from the head of the bed and set them somewhere in the middle. Patting them, he said, “Get comfy, ‘cause yer gonna be there awhile.”

Ichigo scooted over, but asked, “Facing which way?” 

Grimmjow grinned toothily and answered, “Face down, ass up, _mi pequeña ramera_.”

* * *

 

Grimmjow leaned back on his haunches, trying not to laugh as he watched Ichigo attempt to get situated. It took him almost a full minute to find a stable position that he seemed to like, but when he finally settled down and Grimmjow moved around behind him, kneeling between his spread legs, his smile faded away into something that probably looked a lot like reverence.

He ran his hand over Ichigo’s delectable butt, feeling the rounded swell of muscle, squeezing one firm cheek that had just enough fat on it to make it eminently satisfying to squeeze. “Oh, _dulzura_ —I think we had a war once that started over an ass like this.”

It was Ichigo’s turn to laugh. “The ass that launched a thousand ships!” he added, clearly amused.

“What?” 

“It’s supposed to be “the face that launched a thousand ships,” talking about a war on Earth that was started over a beautiful woman. I’m not sure whether it really happened or its just a story, but that’s not important,” Ichigo explained.

“Yer so refined over there, startin’ wars over pretty faces. Ya can’t even—well, never mind, actually ya can.” Grimmjow had been going to say that you couldn’t even fuck a pretty face, but you could. He’d done so earlier.

Ichigo snorted a little laugh, apparently catching what he’d been getting at. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t start the war over who got to fuck Helen of Troy’s mouth.”

Grimmjow would go to war over who got to fuck Ichigo’s mouth, but that was neither here nor there. He leaned down and trailed kisses up the inside of Ichigo’s thigh and up onto one ass-cheek, opening his mouth wide and sinking his teeth into the slightly yielding flesh, sucking in an attempt to leave a ridiculously huge bite-bruise. 

Ichigo made a cute little startled “eep!” sound at first, which quickly turned into a pleased sigh. Grimmjow was still a little confused by Ichigo’s biting kink, but he had figured out one thing: he was seriously into it. The way Ichigo had just fucking lost it when Grimmjow had bitten down on his wrist? Oh, _yes_. All of the yes. 

His _dulzura_ had come so hard from that, spattering it over Grimmjow’s skin, marking him in return for the way he had marked Ichigo. Pantera purred inside him as possessive satisfaction burned in his belly like fine spirits, and the little sprout in his heart grew just a touch, nurtured by their connection, by the fact that he had knowingly allowed himself, however transiently, to be marked as Ichigo’s.

He could happily sit here and stare at Ichigo’s ass, playing with it occasionally, for…well, probably the rest of time, but that wasn’t what he was here to do. 

So he trailed kisses up the other thigh, but this time he didn’t bite. This time he spread Ichigo open with his hands, baring the pink pucker of his hole, arousal racing through his body like a brushfire at the sight. Oh, yeah, he was gonna get his tongue in there, he was gonna lick it so good for Ichigo, eat him out better than anyone ever has or will, make him fuckin’ moan and writhe and hitch his hips back onto Grimmjow’s face.

Ichigo gasped at the first light touch of his tongue, the tip of it lightly brushing the crinkles of skin around his hole, circling, then touching the center, but only lightly, not even close to pushing inside. He kissed it, closed-mouthed. Just a peck; a brush of lips. 

Then he licked with a broad, flat tongue, but not where Ichigo wanted it. Up one side of his cleft and down the other, then dragging his tongue down to play with Ichigo’s balls. He had more hair here than an Arrancar, but Grimmjow didn’t mind it. He’d never in his life encountered something fuzzy and orange that he found offensive, and he wasn’t about to start now. 

The shower had washed away a lot of the distinctive scent of someone in the throes of _el juramento_ that had so appealingly saturated Ichigo’s skin, but it had come back some as Grimmjow’s attentions and his own exertions made him sweat. Down here where it was most concentrated, the rich, sweet musk of it filled Grimmjow’s nostrils, his head, his whole damn body. 

It was impossibly heady. Grimmjow had a plan and he was sticking to it, but the compulsion to just shove his dick in that tight boy-cunt right this second was close to overwhelming. He wanted to hold him down and just _fuck,_ take what he wanted from Ichigo’s body until he came deep, deep inside him, so much and so deep, fill him up, fuckin’ breed him, yeah, plant his seed inside and keep his cock there him until he was ready again so as not to let any spill out. Do it over and over and over until there was no chance that Ichigo wasn’t— _what the fuck was he thinking right now?_

Maybe that _médico_ at the meeting the other day was onto something—and damn her for putting the idea into Grimmjow’s head. Right now he really did feel like he wanted to try to knock Ichigo up. Which was, of course, ridiculous, but Ichigo was his, and if anyone was going to do it, it would be Grimmjow. The thought warmed him, made Pantera’s purring grow loud—Ichigo couldn’t get any more his than with Grimmjow’s kid growing inside him. Grimmjow would be justified, then, in taking care of him and never letting him go.

Mad Creator, what was he even thinking right now? This was fucking stupid. He’d never thought like this with Shawlong or D. Roy or the rest. Hell, he’d never thought like this all the times he’d had sex with _actual females._

Ichigo was _not_ his fucking baby mama, because Ichigo. Was. A. Man. He was male. Very male. Grimmjow _liked_ that Ichigo was male. He’d had his hand wrapped around Ichigo’s very male dick not more than ten minutes ago. Rule number one: you can’t impregnate people that have dicks. This was a fact, Grimmjow was pretty damn sure.

Grimmjow had had some pretty weird fantasies pop into his head throughout his life, but that had to be one of the weirdest. It was hot, though, and more than hot, the idea was so satisfying somehow. Ah, well, normally Grimmjow didn’t like to try to do things that he knew he was doomed to fail at, but this time, he supposed he’d have to make an exception. 

“Oi, Grimmjow, you still awake back there?” Ichigo called back, irritated.

He realized he’d been so shocked by his own thought processes—thought processes he would absolutely not confide in Ichigo, who would undoubtedly be appalled—that he’d stopped what he was doing. Grimmjow decided then he didn’t want to reply because that might mean he had to explain. 

Clearly, the solution was to make Ichigo forget he’d asked a question. 

Grimmjow spread Ichigo wide and sealed his open mouth over his hole, all hot breath and letting his tongue drip spit onto the center of the pucker to make it slippery for his tongue.

Ichigo gasped, his body twitching abortively and his hole twitching under Grimmjow’s tongue. Fuck yeah, he loved that, loved to feel it spasm and flutter because of what he was doing. He wanted to make it relax, made it greedy and ready for his tongue, then his fingers, then his dick. 

He kissed Ichigo’s hole like it was his mouth, almost; lips working gently, softly sucking, his tongue licking and curling and massaging that tight opening. Fuck, that scent was intense with his nose pressed to Ichigo’s skin like this, the scent of _el juramento,_ sweet and nasty, going straight to his head—no, going straight to his dick and making it so damn hard, stupidly, unnecessarily hard so it hung heavy and pendulous before him. He wished he’d picked some other configuration for this, one where he could get some friction, some relief—even humping the mattress would be better than nothing. Maybe not, though; how embarrassing would it be if he came like that?

Ichigo was starting to get noisy. Grimmjow fucking loved it, drank in the gasps and moans and especially the whimpers like the world’s best wine. Whimpers were his particular favorite, and Ichigo did them so well, sounded so needy. The sounds came from high in his throat, almost a kind of keening, and every one of them had the same flavor as _please_.

Grimmjow knew what Ichigo wanted. Ichigo whimpered every time Grimmjow pressed the tip of his tongue to his the center of his puckered hole, testing its give and feeling it want to open a little more each time. A hungry growl rumbled out of Grimmjow’s throat—almost, it was almost time to get his tongue in there, and then he could really start to drive Ichigo crazy. With the growl came a wide grin—he couldn’t wait to feel that hole quivering around him, even if it was just around his tongue. 

“I can feel you smiling, you sadistic bastard,” Ichigo half-spat, half-panted, pissed off and turned on. Grimmjow could smell his arousal just as clearly as he could hear his voice. “You’re such a fucking dick of a tease.”

Grimmjow liked the way Ichigo insulted and swore at him when he wanted something he didn’t want to ask for. It made Grimmjow want to rile him up more. Gathering up his limited supply of self-control, Grimmjow rose to kneel upright behind Ichigo, supporting himself with a hand on the middle of Ichigo’s back, pressing him down at the same time.

With his other hand, he took hold of his dick and rubbed the head of it against Ichigo’s spit-wet hole, making him go rigid in surprise as he gasped a curse.

Shit, that felt good. Grimmjow hissed in a breath between his teeth, purposefully not looking. It would be so easy to just sink inside; he could feel Ichigo’s slutty little hole ready to open up and suck him in. Instead, he made sure he didn’t do that as he rocked his hips forward, sliding the length of his cock along Ichigo’s crack, a shudder of want running up his spine, sweat prickling on the back of his neck—this was even more difficult than he had expected. He’d be so fucking tight…

But it was worth it to hear the way Ichigo keened for him, like it hurt not to have Grimmjow in him. Slowly sliding himself back and forth, Grimmjow folded himself over Ichigo’s back, so he could nip at Ichigo’s earlobe and murmur, “I might be a dick of a tease, but yer teasin’ my dick with all those cute noises yer makin’. Got me so hard, _nene_ , ya feel that?”

Ichigo was panting loudly and it was clearly an effort to speak as he answered, “Yeah, fuck yeah—so ready, Grimmjow, so big. Are you—is it wet?”

Grimmjow grinned. He’d thought maybe Ichigo had a thing about that. “Yeah, it’s wet. I’m so gettin’ so hard and wet for ya, _nene._ Ya should see it; my dick’s pumpin’ out so much slick all over your tight little hole.”

Grimmjow straightened, and in illustration of what he’d just said, he lifted his cock away from Ichigo’s body, risking a quick glance to see the stringy strands of spit and pre-come he could feel stretching between them. Oh, fuck—it felt weird to be turned on by the sight of his own dick, but it was so, so hard, an angry purplish-red at the tip, dribbling slick that rolled down the spine of it to wet his fingers as they held the base. It looked absolutely _obscene,_ and he wished Ichigo could see it. 

Ichigo would just have to be content with feeling it. Grimmjow slapped it against his crack, impacting with a sticky wet smack. Ichigo cried out in excitement, spreading his legs wider to try and feel more. This always turned Grimmjow on; it was his go-to move when his enthusiasm was flagging, not that he needed the help just now. The face was the best, slapping his cock over someone’s lips and cheek as they just _took it,_ but this was good, too. He smacked it hard right against Ichigo’s hole, several times in quick succession.  Yeah, oh fuck yeah—he felt like he could come just from doing that.

One more time. He whapped it against him one more time, smacking the head of his dick down right over his hole and then pressing there to feel it quiver in excitement. But he pressed a little too hard and it started to open up for him, shit, opening around the tip of his dick like it was kissing him. He could feel the warmth of it, so hot, and he wanted it, no, he _needed_ it, the soft-but-tight greedy embrace of it around him. _He wanted it,_ urgent need thundering through his veins, beating in his temples and his cock, his body screaming at him to shove it in all the way, to fuck that hole, fuck it, Ichigo’s hole, fuck Ichigo, fuck him hard and deep and—

Ichigo moaned deliriously and rocked back against him hard, trying to get it in him but making it slide off to one side instead, and shit, this was the song and dance Grimmjow knew and loved. It reminded him why he was doing this, why he wasn’t going to give in just yet. He loved the anticipation, the way it consumed him, headier than any drug he’d tried. 

Teasing was hard because it went both ways, but part of the reason Grimmjow was so good at it was because he actually liked making himself wait. Knowing that he could have that tight ass around his dick whenever he wanted but trying to hold off just that little bit longer to drive Ichigo just that little bit more crazy? Feeling that ancient, primal need roaring through him, burning him up, but knowing Ichigo even further gone than he was, needing it so bad he was more animal than man? It was the best feeling in the whole goddamn galaxy.

And so, Grimmjow summoned up the strength to pull away and settle back down to resume his licking.

“ _What?_ Grimmjow… where…?” Ichigo asked piteously when he felt Grimmjow move back, confused and distressed at the loss of him.

“It ain’t time for that yet, _dulzura_ ,” Grimmjow said in his best soothing voice, stroking Ichigo’s back.

“No…” Ichigo complained dazedly, sounding heartbroken, and it was music to Grimmjow’s fuckin’ ears.

For all his disappointment, he still cried out loudly in pleasure when Grimmjow fell on him with lips and tongue again. Yeah—finally. He’d wanted to get his tongue in this ass since the second he laid eyes on it. His tongue slid into the tight ring of muscle that was Ichigo’s rim, feeling its smoothness. It spasmed around him so damn perfectly that he couldn’t help his moan, sounding damn near as needy as Ichigo. 

He kneaded Ichigo’s ass with his hands, squeezing it hard, spreading it open as wide as he could to get his tongue as deep as he could, reveling in the dark, loamy taste of him. He stretched out his tongue to lick deep, get the end of it past the firm rim and feel the soft texture of his insides, curl his tongue to lick them. 

This was fucking fun, he felt like he could do it forever. He curled his tongue all around, wriggling it, tonguing every millimeter that he could reach. Sometimes he withdrew his tongue to flick it against the outside of Ichigo’s hole and lick all around it to make him whimper and then shoved it back inside. Sometimes he fucked it in fast, scraping his teeth over the skin around it, and sometimes he sealed his lips over it and sucked while he circled his tongue inside slowly. Ichigo was so damn loud, out of control moaning like a cheap whore, like something out of a porno, but instead of bad acting it was all so utterly real. And honestly, Grimmjow wasn’t being that much quieter, hungry little growls and low, loud groans slipping from his lips to buzz against Ichigo’s skin.

He felt like he was drowning in Ichigo, drowning in the humid darkness of him, losing himself in his scent. Not just the earthy smell of his ass but the hot, electrifying scent of his arousal, growing ever more intense, the briny tang of his pre-come smeared all over his dick, and Grimmjow could smell how hard Ichigo was, could smell the blood thundering through his veins and swelling his cock. He could smell the slightly alien musk of his balls, somehow softer and warmer than what Grimmjow was used to but still so urgently, viscerally male, and through it all, winding around the disparate notes and combining them into one glorious, all-consuming hit, the sweet euphoric of _el juramento._

Oh, how he loved this. It was so intimate, so visceral and raw, so goddamn real. Ichigo trusted him so much, to let him do this, to let him look and touch and taste. This was a secret thing, a secret place that some people would barely admit that they had. Not everyone would allow him this—they feared it, more even than letting him put his dick inside, feared some embarrassment they were too embarrassed to name even inside their own heads. But Ichigo was letting him, fuck, letting him lick the inside of his asshole and loving every minute of it. The sounds he was making were probably the hottest thing Grimmjow had ever heard, incoherent bits of words moaned out like he was dying, so loud just like Grimmjow had wanted, unashamed to have Grimmjow eating at the most hidden part of his body.

* * *

Ichigo was sweating, his whole body slick with it, and he knew he was moaning in some kind of ecstatic delirium but he had no idea whatsoever about how to stop. He was so incredibly aroused, more than he could ever remember being. Before this moment, he hadn’t even known it was possible to be this turned on—he’d had this done to him a couple times before, but here, like this, in _el juramento_ , it felt five times, ten times, a hundred times better. He was shuddering uncontrollably, moaning uncontrollably, and he could feel every rapid beat of his pounding heart scudding through his body to make his cock throb in time with it, pressed between his belly and the pillow. 

He had no idea how long Grimmjow’s tongue had been fucking him, in and out and so damn good, slippery-firm, sometimes a hard little spear and sometimes a soft lapping thing. It had to be a long time, though, since right now he was having a hard time remembering any other existence than this one, an existence of nothing but pleasure and unfulfillable need.

Grimmjow’s lips were on him, pressed soft against the thin skin around his hole, and then his thumbs were not just outside but digging into Ichigo’s hole, stretching him open, and he could feel the air on somewhere that he’d never felt air before, and Grimmjow was _looking,_ shit, Ichigo just knew he was. It made a thrum of shameful pleasure rush through him, to know Grimmjow was up close and looking at him there.

He’d asked for this but he hadn’t asked for _this—_ he could picture what it must look like, Grimmjow’s hands making his ass gape open. Then he was trying to shout his pleasure but he was too breathless because Grimmjow was licking him and licking him and licking him, holding him open and licking him, his tongue touching deep places inside Ichigo’s body. Ichigo shuddered, unsure whether it was a shudder of desire or disgust as Grimmjow spat forcefully into his open hole, then gathered up more wetness in a pool on his tongue and shoved it inside.

Ichigo’s hips were starting to work back and forth even though he didn’t want them to, even though up until now he’d managed to keep them still because didn’t want to fuck his ass back onto Grimmjow’s tongue like some kind of needy slut, greedy and desperate to have it deeper inside him. But he did need it deeper, licking and curling and so damn good that he almost, almost thought he could come just from that.

Not quite. It was 95% but he just couldn’t get that last five percent, not even when he gave in and let his body work, fucking back onto Grimmjow’s tongue, humping desperate and dog-like against the pillow below him, scratchy and slippery all at once, the fabric wet with pre-come and sweat. It just wasn’t enough, not tight enough, not slick enough; not big enough, not deep enough, and Grimmjow’s hands were slipping in sweat as they gripped his ass, his fingernails digging little half-moons into Ichigo’s skin. Grimmjow was moaning almost as much as he was and Ichigo felt the trailing edge of his orgasm, almost grabbed onto it as he thought of Grimmjow’s cock, so swollen and red and hard, dripping slippery pre-come onto the bed, fuck, so much, there must be so much.

It had felt so big when Grimmjow had rubbed it against him, bigger than he remembered, and it must be even bigger now, all swollen up for him. Grimmjow was so damn noisy, sounded like he was 95%, too, just from eating Ichigo’s ass. He loved it, clearly, and that was… that was…

That wonderful, terrible, cruel tongue curled against his insides, licking him all over, and then Grimmjow made a sound like he just couldn’t take it anymore and he was gone, _no_ , his mouth was _gone_ , he had _stopped_ , and Ichigo could feel tears in his eyes and he hated this, hated Grimmjow for making him into this, and they weren’t just in his eyes, they were coming out and Ichigo was so angry—

 _“Ah!”_ Ichigo cried out, the sound ringing loudly in his ears. Grimmjow’s dick, the fat, round head of it was pressing against Ichigo’s hole, and oh, oh, it was slipping _inside_. Just a little, then a little more, and if this was another tease Ichigo would die, he would seriously die, and he would find some way to take that fucker Grimmjow with him. There was water leaking from his scrunched-shut eyes and he thought _please, please, Grimmjow you bastard please…_

He must have been saying it out loud, sobbing it out loud because Grimmjow’s voice was low and soothing. “Gonna give it to you, don’t worry, don’t worry _dulzura_ , I gotcha.”

And then he shoved it in all at once, all the way, so deep, so wide, so hot, Grimmjow’s dick inside him. Ichigo’s shoulders curled up like a dying bug and he made a noise like one, too, and he came all over the pillow underneath him, gobs of it dribbling out of him, hot and thick and sticky on his dick like he was a fucking teenager coming in his pajamas again, shameful and so good. He could feel his body clenching, his whole body tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing as waves of pleasure broke over him and rolled him under, his asshole clenching around Grimmjow’s dick, squeezing it as if to try and keep it there forever.

“ _D-dulzura,_ you—” Grimmjow gasped, and he sounded like he was choking on the words, and Ichigo was still coming, shaking, probably he’d been coming for all eternity, an eternity of nothing but pleasure, nothing but Grimmjow deep in him, hard and thick and good, so good, so _right._ So wet, and so hot—oh, yes, wet and hot inside him, Grimmjow’s _come_ inside him, Grimmjow was coming, too, deep where he wanted it, hips rocking to fuck it into him. He was shaking too, shuddering so hard it was vaguely alarming, gasping, panting Ichigo’s name brokenly— _Ichigo, oh, fuck, Ichigo_ —as he came and came and came, creaming up Ichigo’s insides just the way he wanted him to.

* * *

Grimmjow collapsed against Ichigo’s back, utterly overcome, great desperate breaths heaving in and out of his lungs. He hadn’t meant to do that, but Ichigo… But Ichigo. 

Once, when he was barely more than a kid, Grimmjow had read an erotic novel in which one of the women the protagonist fucked had done what Ichigo had just done, come the second he’d entered her, and the idea had struck Grimmjow as supremely hot, even then. He vaguely recalled it consistently featuring in his jerk-off fantasies for a while, and it certainly made periodic appearances even in more recent days. The image had stuck with him, and over the years, he’d tried, from time to time, to make it happen. Until now, he’d never quite succeeded. 

He wasn’t sure what set him off, the insanely tight grip of Ichigo’s body clenching and unclenching around him or the realization that Ichigo was coming just from the relief of finally having Grimmjow’s dick inside him. He hadn’t understood what was happening at first, hadn’t parsed that strange noise Ichigo made as an orgasmic cry, but then he’d felt the furtive, helpless way Ichigo was working his hips in spastic little humping jerks and the realization had hit him like a bomb going off inside his head, completely flatlining all other thought in a blaze of _holy shit, look at him._

He was kind of pissed at himself for pulling a move that belonged to the inept kid he’d been when he’d read that novel, but under the circumstances, he thought he could be forgiven. Also, it was hard to be too irritated with anyone or anything right now because that had been a damn good orgasm. 

He’d been bad, though. He shouldn’t have made his _empujador_ cry. He’d heard the tears in Ichigo’s voice clearly and it had shocked him even as it excited him. It was hard to remember sometimes that Ichigo wasn’t a century-old jaded veteran of the Las Noches casual sex scene like he was, but rather a young, tender, practically-a-virgin compared to him. Part of it was how effortlessly sensual he was, part of it was, okay, fine, how well he sucked cock, but the biggest part of it was that Grimmjow—who hadn’t noticed this until now—thought of him as an equal and thereby subconsciously assigned him a similar age and experience level to his own. Huh. 

But despite all this, Ichigo’s relative inexperience did show from time to time, and apparently he wasn’t very experienced in being made to wait and couldn’t take too much of it, at least not when he was extra sensitive due to _el juramento_. He’d been bad alright, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it—he’d never, ever forget that _please, please, Grimmjow you bastard please_ in that fucking broken-open voice, tight with tears, and it was really the _you bastard_ part that made it special, made it Ichigo. Oh, hell—Grimmjow was going to get excited all over again if he thought about that too much and he couldn’t handle that right now.

He was finally starting to be able to breathe again, so he turned his attention to soothing Ichigo, who was still breathing harshly, evidently trying to get ahold of himself and not totally succeeding. Grimmjow trailed soft kisses down the side of Ichigo’s neck and onto the nape, across the tops his shoulders while he stroked a hand up and down Ichigo’s side, trying to gentle him. 

Ichigo was probably in one of two states right now—blissed out or freaking out. Possibly some odd combination of the two. Grimmjow needed to get him flipped over to take a look at his expression, either that or get him to talk. The former sounded like the better bet, but to do that, he needed to get off him. He started to right himself but Ichigo’s hand flew back, groping blindly until it seized on his arm. 

“Don’t leave,” Ichigo said, his voice muffled, his face buried in the crook of his other arm against the bed.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Grimmjow promised, equal parts charmed and alarmed by this response. “I just wanna turn ya over.”

“I don’t want you to… go,” Ichigo answered, an odd hesitation before ‘go,’ like he’d wanted to say something else.

“Ya mean ya want me to stay inside ya?” 

A small, embarrassed nod was all the response he got. 

So cute. He was so fucking cute. And a little freaked out, Grimmjow decided, craving the reassurance of touch, of connection. Hiding himself away, though was not going to fly with Grimmjow. Who knew what kind of confusion he’d mire himself in, caught up in his own head. He still had to flip him over.

“It’ll just be for a minute, then I’ll come back,” Grimmjow promised, then placed a kiss on the nape of Ichigo’s neck and added, as a sort of enticement, “I just want to be able to kiss ya properly.

Ichigo thought about it for a minute, then pushed himself up on shaky arms and said, “Okay.”

  Grimmjow eased back to kneel behind him, slowly and carefully pulling out. Good, he was still half-hard, he’d be able to do what he’d said he would. He gave his tired dick a couple surreptitious strokes by way of encouragement and found he was so sensitive that it made him hiss and shiver like someone had just pressed a chunk of ice to the back of his neck. Ichigo made an effort to flip himself over, but Grimmjow caught him around the waist and helped him out, keeping his ass atop the stack of pillows and encouraging Ichigo to wrap his legs around Grimmjow’s waist.

He quickly grabbed the previously neglected bottle of lube and slicked up his semi-erect cock to make it go in easier, wincing at the chill that did not particularly help his situation. Lube, though—it was a good invention. He probably should have used some a minute ago, but he had been too far gone to even remember it was a thing that existed in the world. Well, it had worked out—it wasn’t like the spit had had time to dry up, after all. Grimmjow sighed inwardly, embarrassed. 

He guided his cock to Ichigo’s slightly pink, slightly puffy, slightly Grimmjow’s-come-leaking-out-of-it hole, a pulse of desire sizzling up his nerves at the sight of it. He wanted to mess it up more until it was swollen and reddened and loose. Well, perhaps in a little while. 

It took a little doing, but not too much, and he sighed in pleasure as he entered Ichigo, who made a small whining sound of approval at the sensation. Grimmjow rocked his hips a little, experimentally—ooh, that felt nice. Yeah, that felt real nice.

Now that they were situated the way Ichigo wanted them to be, Grimmjow took a good look at his face. His expression was hard to read, but his eyes weren’t red, so Grimmjow must’ve only made him cry a little. 

“How ya doin’?” Grimmjow asked, deciding the direct approach was best, primarily because he had no idea what the indirect approach would consist in.

Ichigo didn’t respond right away, but his eyes dropped to Grimmjow’s lips, which Grimmjow interpreted as ‘I’m doing okay, but I would like a kiss now’ or maybe ‘I don’t know how to put what I’m feeling into words, so let’s try some nonverbal communication.”

So Grimmjow kissed him, gentle for once, or rather, gentle for one second before Ichigo grabbed his head between both hands and crushed their lips together—no tongue, just lips, but endlessly passionate nonetheless, reminding Grimmjow oddly of a famous old photo of a pair of newly-reunited wartime lovers. 

“You’re a crazy teasing bastard,” Ichigo informed him once he’d broken the kiss, his arms moving to cling to Grimmjow’s back instead. “That’s never happened to me before.”

“The way you came, or the…” Grimmjow regretted the ‘or’ as soon as it was out of his mouth, but there it was. “Or the other thing?”

“Neither,” Ichigo answered, looking away, cheeks aflame with embarrassment but, if Grimmjow was any judge, not with true shame. Good. “I just… I dunno, I just wanted it, wanted you so much. I felt like I was this close to coming while you were, uh, you know, licking me.”

Grimmjow grinned, helpless in the face of Ichigo’s adorableness. “Yer still embarrassed to say it? After I did it to ya for almost half an hour? After I stuck my tongue in your ass and _wiggled it around_?”

Ichigo choked out a little laugh, which made Grimmjow gasp, eyes wide, at the way his body tightened around him. 

“Boy, did you ever wiggle it around,” Ichigo said with feeling, eyes dancing. “Half an hour is a long time, but it felt like an eternity, and I mean that in the torturous, oh-my-god-I-need-to-come way, not in the it-felt-like-forever-because-I-was-getting-bored way.”

“I aim to overwhelm,” Grimmjow responded with a little bow-like wiggle, glad the moment of levity seemed to have stabilized things a bit. He decided not to point out that Ichigo could have just jerked himself off any time he wanted, and instead bent to kiss Ichigo’s neck, tracing his earlier bite-marks with close-mouthed but lingering kisses.

He ventured a slow roll of his hips, drawing a soft, pleased sound from Ichigo. 

After a brief pause, he asked, “You’ve never had someone really tease you before, have you?”

Ichigo shook his head. “No, not really. Not like that.”

Grimmjow grinned, hiding it against Ichigo’s neck. “You’ve been missing out.”

“Yeah,” Ichigo admitted, and there it was, there was what he was looking for—that shy little smile and those half-lidded eyes that told him that the experience Ichigo had just had was something he’d like to repeat. “I’ve been missing out on a lot of things. I’m really not… not very experienced.”

“You’re young,” Grimmjow said with a shrug.

“Still, even so. Even for my age, I haven’t tried a lot of things. I just know the basics. See, I was with someone for almost two years, and then for the two years after that I was… not ready. She broke my heart.” 

“I’m sorry,” Grimmjow said, not really all that sorry. He’d bet money this girl was one of the reasons Ichigo thought so poorly of himself. Stupid cow—anyone with half an eye could see Ichigo was not to be let go so easily. 

So, just how inexperienced did that make him? He’d learned a while ago that Ichigo was twenty-four of his home’s years old, and now he knew that he had only one partner over a four-year span, so— Wait. Hold the goddamn phone. “Are you telling me that you went for _two years_ with _no sex_?” 

Grimmjow was appalled. That would be appalling from a purely humanitarian perspective even if Ichigo was a profoundly unattractive individual, but he was exactly the opposite. That being so, it was unbelievable. 

“You’re a hundred and some years old! Surely you’ve gone for that long without,” Ichigo huffed, defensive. 

“Nope,” Grimmjow replied. “Why the fuck would I do a thing like that?”

“I dunno, emotional upheaval?” Ichigo asked, looking at Grimmjow like he was the weird one in this conversation.

“Pretty sure I always responded to that by having more sex, not less,” Grimmjow answered, after considering and rejecting the notion of denying he ever experienced any such phenomenon. More sex, and more violent sex. Those were the times he’d come closest to breaking his cardinal rule and giving up even the pretense of caring about his partner’s pleasure. 

“Ah,” Ichigo said, enlightened. “You’re one of those. I bet you eat more when you’re upset, too.”

Grimmjow reared up, offended. “Oi, do I look fat to you?”

Wide-eyed, Ichigo said hurriedly, “No!” 

Then he looked Grimmjow up and down, his eyes lingering over Grimmjow’s quite-toned-if-he-did-say-so-himself abdomen. “Really no.”

“Hmph,” Grimmjow huffed, somewhat mollified. He certainly never did a thing like eating an entire box of chips after a shitty day at work. Never. He took out his frustrations with his fists in the gym or with his dick in a willing partner, like a proper man, thank you very much.

“Anyway, clearly you need to make up for lost time,” Grimmjow said, quite reasonably, and rocked his hips, putting his back into it a little this time.

Ichigo’s eyelids fluttered and all four of his limbs tightened where they were holding Grimmjow close. For his part, Grimmjow was suddenly much less interested in this inane conversation and more interested in the way other parts of Ichigo were tightening around him. 

“Feel good?” Grimmjow asked, unable to keep the sly tone out of his voice and not really trying all that hard.

“Mmm, yeah,” Ichigo sighed. He arched his back, rolled his hips in a wicked little circle, then, tests apparently concluded, pointed out, “You’re hard again.”

“Hard enough,” Grimmjow agreed. Not as hard as he’d prefer for anal, but it would do. He was recovering quickly, anyway, so it would be fine in another minute.

Ichigo nodded, eyes dropping to his lips again, ready for more.

“Ya ain’t so good for my stamina but ya work wonders for my recovery time,” Grimmjow told him, nipping playfully at the end of his nose for no reason he could explain.

Ichigo smiled languidly, eyes closed, and huffed in amusement. When he opened them, they had an expression Grimmjow had never seen before. There was heat and hunger, that he was familiar with. But there was also something else, a warmth, a devastating softness, a depth of feeling Grimmjow had no answer for but a kiss.

* * *

Grimmjow kissed him, softly, sweetly, lingeringly; unlike any kiss they’d shared to date. Ichigo figured he must look like he could use the comfort for Grimmjow to kiss him like that, but he didn’t care because it was felt damn nice. Ichigo supposed he did need it at that.

Grimmjow sucked Ichigo’s soft, bruised bottom lip between his teeth, tugging at it lightly but not nearly hard enough to hurt, and Ichigo licked at his mouth in answer. Even to Ichigo, it felt puppyish and beseeching, but Grimmjow got the message and slid his tongue out to twine with Ichigo’s, so Ichigo didn’t worry about it.

Grimmjow moved inside him just as gently and carefully as he kissed, slow, short thrusts that kept him buried deep, that made Ichigo’s back arch and his small sounds escape his mouth. Ichigo clung to him, legs around his waist, arms wrapped around his back, keeping him close so they were touching as much as they could be, chests pressed together, skin clinging, still a little damp with sweat. One of Grimmjow’s hands was behind his head, crushing the back of his hair, his massive hand cradling Ichigo’s skull so he didn’t have to tire his neck out arching up to kiss Grimmjow. 

Grimmjow was all around him, in him, over him, holding him up, filling all of his senses—right now, the rest of the universe felt like something out of a dream, vague and insubstantial in the face of the heat Grimmjow’s breath against his lips. 

Nothing mattered but this; hell, for all Ichigo knew right now nothing existed but this and they were in a little bubble universe all their own. In this universe, the most important constants weren’t things like the speed of light and the gravitational constant but the sweat-damp slide of their skin and the way each thrust rocked Ichigo’s whole body. The two of them moved together, and inexorable and perfect as dance of a binary star system, the two of them locked together and spinning through the dark vastness of space.

Without Grimmjow’s body and his connected like this, Ichigo felt like he might spin away and be lost, untethered and alone. When Ichigo had lain there, Grimmjow’s hands spreading him open, Grimmjow’s mouth licking at him, he had felt untethered, not alone but not connected the way he wanted to be, like he might fly off at any moment and be trapped, forever, in a vacuum of nothing but pleasure and all-consuming need that would never be fulfilled.

He’d never known such a feeling, nor had he known how truly sublime relief could be. He’d come instantly and ecstatically when Grimmjow had finally buried his cock in Ichigo’s body in one long, smooth shove, and even that hadn’t been enough to express how he’d felt at that moment, like he was flying apart, a supernova of completion. 

It had truly rocked him. He _had_ flown apart, in some way, and he felt a little different now that he had condensed again, reformed around the core of Grimmjow’s cock. He still felt shaky and new, like that was the only thing holding him together; like if they separated, he’d fall apart.

And Grimmjow understood that, or at least accepted it. He must, because he’d only unjoined them for a moment before working his semi-erect cock awkwardly back inside, the sponginess of it feeling strange inside Ichigo’s body, not entirely pleasurable but entirely _good,_ grounding him just the way he needed.

Now, now that it was that wonderfully familiar hard solidity inside him again, Grimmjow showed he understood by barely withdrawing, just rocking, grinding, flexing, buried deep and perfect while he kissed Ichigo like there would be no tomorrow, like this was his only chance.

There was something desperate in Grimmjow’s kisses, something long-starved and ravenous in the way he forced Ichigo’s mouth open wide, tongue thrusting into it, claiming and possessing him. Ichigo let him, because that was a thing he could do now, this newly formed him, and it was almost intolerably good. Ichigo let him, let Grimmjow own his mouth, own all of him because he realized now that it didn’t mean he lost any of himself. He let himself be cradled in Grimmjow’s arms and held fast, and here, finally, was _surrender._

Ichigo felt strange, full to bursting with something he couldn’t name, swelling up in his chest, spreading through his body, making him hold tighter, kiss harder, dig his nails into Grimmjow’s back as he rocked with him. It was a kind of energy, and he didn’t know what to do with it—too much, he felt too much, and he knew the only thing that would help was more.

He gasped Grimmjow’s name in between kisses, felt Grimmjow pull back and then opened his eyes only to see Grimmjow staring down at him. Somehow, in the few minutes since he’d last seen Grimmjow’s face, he’d forgotten how beautiful it was, and now it stole his breath and left him incapable of doing anything but staring up at him in awe. Those eyes of his, so impossibly blue, reminding him that fire was blue when it was at its hottest. And in those eyes he saw that Grimmjow burned for him with the steady, hot implacability of nuclear fusion, turning their two bodies into something new, something amazing, just like turning hydrogen into helium.

Grimmjow looked down at him and Ichigo looked back, and Grimmjow must have seen his plea because he pulled out a little further, thrust back into him a little harder, making him cry out, making his hands skitter down Grimmjow’s back as his own back spasmed into an taut arch.

“Yes,” Ichigo breathed. “Grimmjow, _yes._ ”

Grimmjow exhaled, hard and shaky, and he gently lay Ichigo’s head back against the bed so he could use that hand to caress Ichigo’s face, his big hand damp with sweat as it cupped his cheek. Their eyes were still connected, their gazes locked together as Grimmjow thrust into him again and again, slow and deep and hard. Every time he pulled back, he did it so slowly that Ichigo could feel it millimeter-by-millimeter, but when he thrust back in again, it was in a quick, hard push that knocked Ichigo’s breath out of him in a low, harsh cry and inched them up the bed. Every time, Ichigo’s legs tightened around Grimmjow’s back as he rocked his own hips up to meet him, making it harder, hotter, better.

Ichigo’s cock was trapped between them, slipping in sweat and pre-come against his belly but not entirely against Grimmjow’s, because Grimmjow’s belly was partially _agujero_ , partially nothing, and it felt so strange to feel his cock slipping a little into that empty hole, the head of it bumping up against the inside-top wall of it. He was sure some Shinigami would find that sickening, intolerable, but Ichigo kind of liked it. It was something he had only ever felt and would only ever feel with Grimmjow. It made Grimmjow shudder sometimes, his eyelids fluttering and his soft grunts of pleasure going thready. 

It was strange to feel the air on him there when they were slipping against each other like this, overheated, their body heat bleeding into each other as their hearts beat fast and their bodies worked hard until they were both flushed all over and soaked in sweat. So hot, Grimmjow’s body was so hot against him, his breath so hot on Ichigo’s face, his cock burning like a brand inside him. It felt wonderful, an antidote to all those shivering, feverish nights he’d spent alone, when no amount of blankets was really enough. 

There was a drop of sweat clinging to the tip of Grimmjow’s nose, wobbling as Grimmjow moved above him but not falling, so Ichigo unwound a hand from around his back to swipe it away, wiping the sweat from his brow for good measure. His hand lingered on Grimmjow’s face, his fingertips tracing the contours of his cheekbone, his jaw, his eyebrow, his _mascarita;_ his thumb toying with Grimmjow’s swollen, bruised bottom lip as Grimmjow pushed into the touches, catlike.

His eyes roved over Grimmjow’s face, too, but always returned to those eyes, those eyes that burned like blue supergiants, the brightest there were, hot and massive like Grimmjow inside him and warping the fabric of the world to pull Ichigo in with their gravity, inexorable and beautiful like a law of nature.

* * *

Ichigo was giving him that look again, that one that broke him open. The one that felt like Ichigo gently and carefully cracking open his ribcage to shine summer sunlight on the heart he’d buried there to keep safe and stagnant, making things grow and germinate inside it whether he wanted them to or not.

Ichigo was so warm it hurt—not the hot clutch of his body, Grimmjow could handle that, but the way he looked at Grimmjow like Grimmjow was something beautiful all the way down, not something hardened and gnarled wrapped up in lethality and animal appeal.

The way he looked at Grimmjow and the way he touched him, they were devastating. No one had ever touched Grimmjow like Ichigo touched him now, his careful fingertips on Grimmjow’s face, like Grimmjow was made of spun gold, precious and fragile. If anyone had ever done that, he had been too young to remember. That such a light, gentle touch could hurt him where he could shrug off all but the strongest techniques of his compatriots like they were nothing was impossible. It was contradictory, and it was true. 

Grimmjow had perhaps been too hasty in his disdain for masochists, because the way Ichigo touched him hurt but Grimmjow, so help him, couldn’t get enough of it. He wanted Ichigo to keep looking at him like that, wanted Ichigo’s sun to keep shining on him. It was a pain that brought healing with it when he’d thought he’d have to settle for scar tissue; it was a pain that brought healing with it when he’d thought he’d rejected healing and _chosen_ scar tissue. 

He loved it, but he couldn’t take any more of it right now. It threatened to overwhelm him, too much, too intense, too painful, sending him to some kind of tipping point, some kind of bursting. He thought of green, growing things again and knew what they needed to live wasn’t sunshine alone—they needed rain, too. That shit? Not happening. He wasn’t that sappy, not yet, anyway.

Instead, he pulled Ichigo’s hand away from his face and pinned it to the bed beside Ichigo’s head, kissing Ichigo hard, picking up the pace. Ichigo moaned into his mouth and clutched at him with the hand he still had on Grimmjow’s back, slipping in sweat, nails leaving some serious scratches down his back as Ichigo tried to hold on. 

Fuck, but he felt good. Ichigo’s body was still so tight, no matter how good Grimmjow had given it to him last night. Tight, but yielding, too, opening around Grimmjow readily, sucking him in. His hole was eager, just like the rest of him—the way Ichigo was using his legs wrapped around Grimmjow’s waist as leverage to rock his hips up to meet him was slowly driving Grimmjow crazy with want. 

He wanted Ichigo so goddamn much, he couldn’t imagine how he could ever get enough of him, not in a thousand years. He didn’t know what to do with so much want except try to pour it into Ichigo with his hands and his mouth and his cock, letting his body work, letting it do what it knew how to do. 

Grimmjow finally gave up the hold on Ichigo’s wrist that so pleased him and reached down between them for Ichigo’s cock, finding it iron-hard and insanely hot, slippery enough for Grimmjow to jack it the way Ichigo liked, fast as he could manage, smacking his hand into Ichigo’s body on the downstroke like he was fucking hard and deep. He himself was nowhere near ready to come again, so he could put all his attention into pleasing Ichigo.

Ichigo looked up at him not with that startling reverence but with eyes gone dark and pleasure-drugged, half-lidded, the most erotic thing in the world. His mouth was open enough that Grimmjow could see his tongue before his moans started to coalesce into words the way they did when he was getting close, much in the way of all pre-orgasm babblers. But this time it wasn’t, “Fuck me, make me come, I’m gonna come,” but just “Grimmjow, Grimmjow, Grimmjow, Grimmjow—”

He fucking loved the way Ichigo said his name, all the ways he said it, in fact, but this particular one was pretty damn great—needy, reedy, breathless, sucking in great gulps of air between repetitions. He liked hearing it, but _his mouth_ , look at that pretty fucking mouth, open and gasping and Grimmjow’s for the taking. 

He kissed Ichigo hard, biting at his lips, forgetting that the bottom one was already split from earlier. It opened again under the pressure of Grimmjow’s teeth and he couldn’t help the way it made him groan and fuck harder. He guessed it was fucked up but the taste of Ichigo’s blood in his mouth made his heart speed up and his cock throb in some primal excitement.

Ichigo didn’t seem to mind, just groaned against his lips and writhed ineffectually underneath him, torn between fucking up into Grimmjow’s hand or back onto his cock and not doing a great job of either. His body was growing tenser and his cock felt hot and thick and so fucking hard in Grimmjow’s hand, ready to blow, and Grimmjow tensed, too, in sympathy or just excitement, he didn’t know. 

“Grimmjow!” Ichigo gasped, one more time, his lips brushing Grimmjow’s, and Grimmjow slotted their mouths together, felt Ichigo’s tongue shove its way desperately into Grimmjow’s mouth, kissing him deeply as his low, loud moan vibrated against Grimmjow’s lips and his cock pulsed in Grimmjow’s hand, spurting weakly, not much left to give. 

Grimmjow could feel the way Ichigo’s abs tensed against the back of his hand, Ichigo’s body trying to curl up in that wonderfully wrecked way he had, but he couldn’t really manage it, pinned under Grimmjow. The muscles inside him clutched and clenched in time with the shudders wracking his body, making Grimmjow contribute to the way their lips buzzed together with a few harsh groans of his own, glad he was finally able to enjoy the sensation without losing his shit entirely.

He worked Ichigo through it, not slowing down the way Ichigo liked but still jerking him fast, still fucking him hard, and by the way Ichigo’s mouth had gone slack and his moans had gone halfway to hollering, he’d guessed right, that Ichigo liked him to slow down only because otherwise it was too intense. Only when the shouts had trailed off into overstimulated whimpers did Grimmjow let up, releasing Ichigo’s mouth to let him pant for air and slowing the hard, rhythmic roll of his hips enough to let him actually catch his breath.

When he let go of Ichigo’s cock, he found it to be softening rapidly. Had he worn it out for now? He hoped not, because Grimmjow’s sure as hell wasn’t done. Grimmjow liked it this way, where he wasn’t either chasing his orgasm or trying to hold it off, just enjoying the sensations that his partner’s sweet body had to offer. He’d come again eventually, when he was good and ready, but before then he’d fuck Ichigo into a quivering mess whose entire vocabulary consisted of the word ‘fuck’ and Grimmjow’s name. 

* * *

Fuck.

Oh, fuck, _Grimmjow._

 _That was awesome_ , Ichigo thought as he sighed in pure post-orgasmic contentment. This time, it hadn’t felt like flying apart and reforming, it just felt like coming, the same waves of pleasure he’d known since he was like twelve, familiar and overwhelming and good. That wasn’t to say it was a half-assed orgasm, it had been a really good one, it just hadn’t been anything strange the way the time before had, so intense as to be nearly unrecognizable if not for the actual ejaculation part.  

Not just the last bit but that whole thing had been some A-grade sex, some A-grade lovemaking, he might even call it provided no one was listening. The way Grimmjow had looked at him had been so intense, the way Grimmjow had touched him had been so… so… Ichigo didn’t have the words. All he knew was that it made him feel wanted and cared for and overwhelmed not just with sensation but with emotion, looking up at Grimmjow, who was beautiful and trying so hard to please him. Grimmjow, who had clearly felt the same connection between them that Ichigo had and was even less equipped to deal with it. Grimmjow, whose face had looked like he was in pain before he tore Ichigo’s hand from his face and started giving it to him in earnest like he couldn’t take anymore and wanted to do something he knew how to do.

And so Ichigo had clung to him as Grimmjow’s body and his worked together, slipping in sweat, mouths clinging wetly, and it had felt so perfect, so real, so messy and… Ichigo would say ‘human,’ but Ichigo was the only one who had even a little of that in him. Alive, then, yes, so alive, two living and sentient beings grasping at each other with their hearts in their throats and their need in their eyes, their connection in their fingertips and the interlocking parts of them.

So good. Ichigo had finally gotten what he’d asked for, and he couldn’t be happier. He was ready to take a nap now. He opened his eyes and smiled up at Grimmjow, who was still rocking into him slowly. 

Grimmjow smiled back, but it wasn’t the smile Ichigo had been expecting. It was a hot, wolfish smile, toothy and more than a little cocksure. “Done already, Kurosaki? I hope not. I don’t feel like stoppin’.”

Ichigo kind of had thought they were done for now, actually, but evidently not. By way over proving his point, Grimmjow drove into Ichigo, hard, making him cry out in pleasure. 

Grimmjow leaned closer and whispered, “I feel like fuckin’ ya ’til I’m good an’ ready to be done, an’ that ain’t gonna be any time soon.” 

Grimmjow punctuated his statement with another hard thrust, and on second thought, Ichigo was good with not being done yet. He was really good with that, as long as he didn’t have to do much of the work. He was pretty sure he couldn’t really move.

“Let your legs down, dulzura, and turn over for me. I’ll introduce you to one of my favorite positions…”

Ichigo managed that much, barely, confirming his suspicion that he was fucking tired. But that was okay, because Grimmjow pushed his legs together and climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs, and Ichigo knew he didn’t have to do much moving because he couldn’t actually move in this position. He kinda… He thought he kinda liked that. Ichigo didn’t know what to do with his arms, but Grimmjow grabbed them up and, leaning over hims back, positioned them stretched out in front of Ichigo and crossed at the wrist, like they were tied together. Grimmjow pressed them to the bed firmly before he withdrew his hand, apparently signaling that he wanted them to stay there. Again, Ichigo thought he kinda liked that. He even thought he might like it more if they were tied there for real.

Ichigo gasped in surprise as he felt Grimmjow’s fingers slide inside him, and boy, was slide the word—they were slippery with a lot of lube. Grimmjow did like it wet, and that sounded good too Ichigo, too, right now. They pressed in and down with unerring accuracy, making a wild thrum of pleasure and arousal rocket through Ichigo’s body and come out of his mouth in a startled moan.

“Fuck yeah, _nene_ ,” Grimmjow said as he pulled his fingers out. “You’re gonna like this one.” 

Ichigo’s butt cheeks were pressed together in this position and he felt Grimmjow’s cockhead slide between them, slippery with yet more lube, then it pressed against his hole and went in easy, sinking into him like he was made for this. Grimmjow made the best noise as he sank inside, pure satisfaction, that kind of aspirated snarl, and oh god, oh fuck—

“Grimmjow!” Ichigo cried as Grimmjow drove himself into Ichigo, in and down, the head of his arrow-straight cock hitting just the right spot on the way in and the spine of it sliding along somewhere amazing as he went deeper. His hand was in the middle of Ichigo’s back, holding him down even more firmly as he drove himself deep, his weight behind the thrust, hips pressing tight to the back of Ichigo’s ass and Ichigo was fucking _immobilized_ here, helpless and Grimmjow’s.

“Ya like that?” Grimmjow asked, his voice dripping dark satisfaction, clearly knowing the answer already.

He clearly knew it because he deliberately prevented Ichigo from responding by doing it _again_ , and oh, ohh—

“I asked ya a question.”

“Y-ye… Yeah,” Ichigo managed. Fortunately, the required answer was a word he could moan pretty easily. 

Shit, this wasn’t going to take long at all. He could already feel his orgasm coiling tight in his belly, welling up from the place Grimmjow was so mercilessly shoving his dick against with the strength of his powerful thighs and the weight of his body behind every thrust.

“Yeah what?” Grimmjow asked, sounding like he was supremely fucking pleased with himself. Ichigo couldn’t get mad about it because he was supremely fucking pleased with him, too.

“I l-like it,” Ichigo answered, eyes squeezed shut under the onslaught of pleasure. It seemed like such an inadequate statement, so Ichigo went on. “I… oh, god, Grimmjow, I… fuck, I love it, I fuckin’… just don’t stop.”

Grimmjow shifted, plastering himself to Ichigo’s back, and at first Ichigo was dismayed because he didn’t want to lose that angle, but the new one was amazingly, impossibly better. He pressed a string of kisses to the top of Ichigo’s shoulders, then bit down on the back of his neck, sucking a bruise there just under his hairline.

“I ain’t gonna, _dulzura_. I ain’t gonna for a good long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on El Juramento: Ichigo's _juramento_ ends and normal life resumes. Yay?
> 
> Also, if you haven't had enough GrimmIchi smut, please check out my new one-shot, "The Arrancar Talks". It's very different in tone than this, so watch out, but I just wanted to let you know it was there. : 3


	11. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple days later...

Grimmjow was so screwed. He’d had infatuations before, though not many and not recently, and this… This felt like one of those but with the intensity turned up to max. He felt giddy with it, stupid and younger than he’d felt in a long time. They’d been holed up in Ichigo’s room for going on three full days (he’d arrived in the evening, and it was the morning of the third day) now—he’d promised to make it the best three days of Ichigo’s life, but he hadn’t expected it would be the best of his, too. But, Mad Creator, he didn’t want it to end. 

He’d never been through a _juramento_ like this; not even his own had passed in such a haze of passion and pleasure. Ichigo was everything he’d ever wanted in a bed parter—sensual, adventurous, more than a little submissive but so very fiery at the same time. Also, he was just so _hot_ —that body, those eyes, the way he moved, the way he talked… Everything about him, even his oddly bright hair.

He was also, as far as Grimmjow could tell, not a bad match for him in other ways, not that they’d really spent all that much time talking. Both of them were hot-tempered, so they would probably fight a good bit, but Grimmjow would rather have that than some passive-aggressive bullshit. And hey, he was still waiting for that rematch, so he and Ichigo could settle their differences that way if all else failed. That would be great, to have a lover who was a true equal in terms of physical strength and spiritual power. 

He knew Ichigo thought so, too, since he’d confided to Grimmjow about how his previous relationship had gone, how much he’d worried that he might hurt his woman by accident. And the Would-Be God knew, he’d shied away from relationships for similar enough reasons, though in his case accident was not really what concerned him. But he and Ichigo could throw each other around as much as they wanted, out on the sands or at home in the bedroom. Ichigo wouldn’t need to treat him like glass, and if Grimmjow lost his temper it would be bad but not a complete disaster. They were both sturdy enough that they couldn’t damage each other too badly in the heat of the moment, whatever kind of heated moment it was.

Plus, he just plain liked Ichigo. Unlike the rest of his Shinigami compatriots, he was… Grimmjow didn’t know how to put it. He was laid-back in a way they weren’t, even though he was actually a little high-strung. It was more that wasn’t into all that fancy, formal, ritualized bureaucracy that the Shinigami apparently got off on. In fact, he seemed to hate it almost as much as Grimmjow did.

Ichigo, like Grimmjow, wasn’t the type to let anything get in his way once he’d decided on something. From what Ichigo had told him of his career with the Shinigami military, it was fairly similar to his own in that it involved a startlingly quick rise to the upper ranks.

Their chain of command had warped around Ichigo, Grimmjow understood—Ichigo wouldn’t really do what anybody told him if he disagreed with it, so he wasn’t really even _in_ the chain of command; he answered only to the Captain-Commander, or, temporarily, Mission Commander Kuchiki. They’d created a special position just for him.

It amazed Grimmjow that they let him stay at all, if half the events Ichigo had alluded to were as dramatic as the sounded. Grimmjow suspected that the reason was something like he was just too strong for them to risk alienating him without neutralizing him, and he was too well-liked for them to do that without a serious scandal. Ichigo, Grimmjow was sure, irritated everyone he met and then proceeded to charm the pants off them (if not literally, for reasons Grimmjow still didn’t quite understand.)

The point was that Ichigo was his own man, the same as Grimmjow was. He’d like to meet this Captain-Commander Kyoraku someday; he sounded like a smart man. Ichigo was too stubborn and too principled to follow orders that he disagreed with, but Kyoraku had managed to keep him on their side by putting him in a position where he had a lot of discretion with regard to his own actions but no command of his own, so he didn’t have any subordinates he could get into trouble by making them oppose an order from somewhere else that he didn’t like.

The fact that Ichigo was such a troublemaker did make Grimmjow think, though, that the Shinigami might be willing to post him to to their new, remote embassy. He might be a serious combat asset, but a wildcard like that was a liability, too, and he imagined that getting him out from underfoot might take a load off the Captain-Commander’s mind.

But would Ichigo want to come to Hueco Mundo for the foreseeable future? He might, Grimmjow thought. Since Ichigo’s life was spread between two planets, he wasn’t as attached to either of them as he would be if it was wholly on one. He would likely handle a relocation to Hueco Mundo better because of it, especially if a couple of his friends got posted here as well, although preferably not that handsy Abarai. Also, he did have family here, and a very interesting family history to learn about, as well a whole cultural heritage he knew almost nothing about.

Ichigo was not temperamentally suited to being a diplomat, for all his charm, but perhaps he could head the embassy’s security? Something like that, anyway. 

Here he was, getting ahead of himself. Way, way ahead of himself. Realistically, the chances that Ichigo would remain on Hueco Mundo were low. He had friends and family to get back to, a life and ambitions of his own. He knew he and Ichigo could be something great, but it would be insane for Ichigo to give everything he had up for a man he’d just met. Not just any man—a Jaegerjaques, possessed of that infamous temper and no real experience in romantic relationships. Grimmjow might look like a great catch in terms of money and status

“Mmm, watcha thinkin’ about?” Ichigo asked sleepily, stirring beside him.

“You,” Grimmjow answered, his worries instantly falling away as he looked down at Ichigo’s sleepy-eyed, pillow-creased face and hoped own his smile didn’t look too goofy.

Ichigo smiled back, soft and pleased, looking at him in that way he did now and then, so impossibly warm. It made Grimmjow’s chest hurt and he couldn’t get enough of it. 

Ichigo shifted, tossing the covers off himself and stretching theatrically, displaying his naked body for Grimmjow to admire. He rolled onto his belly and made himself comfortable, wiggling around in a way that drew Grimmjow’s eyes to his lovely ass, as it was clearly meant to do. He looked up, a confident smirk playing about his lips, then asked, “What about me?”

Then his stomach growled and he buried his face in the pillow with a little embarrassed sound. 

“I’m hungry,” he said, but it was so muffled as to be nearly unintelligible. 

Grimmjow sighed his displeasure, and Ichigo lifted his face with a raised eyebrow. “What’s your problem?”

“If ya got yer appetite back, yer back to normal,” Grimmjow explained mournfully. “Means they’re gonna throw me outta here, soon.” 

Ichigo’s brow drew down, considering. “I do feel better physically. I think my fever’s gone. I ache all over, but that’s probably all down to what you and I have been doing. I do still want to have sex with you, though… Like, a lot. But I suppose I don’t feel like I’ll die if I don’t get it—oh! That’s different!”

“What?” Grimmjow asked. 

“Now I want to fuck you, too,” Ichigo answered, grinning. “Ah, I _am_ getting back to normal! Good, good.”

Grimmjow blinked, taken aback. Ichigo had hinted at this before, but… He had never in his life heard of any officer letting his sworn man do such a thing—any continuation of a physical relationship was moderately unusual, except of course if one selected a _brazo derecho_ , but a physical relationship that involved such a reversal of roles was unheard of. Even among the less tradition-bound civilians, if a physical relationship continued after _el juramento_ was over, it stayed in the same pattern.

As for relationships between two men that had nothing to do with _el juramento_ , such reversals were still not at all the norm. It was outré, the kind of exotic activity young artists and students got up to together. Usually, if he understood correctly, the practitioners of those kinds of relationships were age-mates and equals in rank. Even that in and of itself was abnormal—the whole concept of men and men together among Arrancar was centered around the idea of _el juramento_ , even when it wasn’t actually involved.

Grimmjow was not opposed to being outré on principle, and anyway it wasn’t like anybody had to know the specifics. But the idea of doing just what he’d asked Ichigo to do that first morning—putting himself in another’s hands like that—made him really uncomfortable. He didn’t like the thought of being so vulnerable, so exposed. He wasn’t shy about his body, about anything it was or did, but… what if something weird happened? Something gross? He’d been involved in such mishaps before and it had been embarrassing enough for him even though he wasn’t the one malfunctioning in such a thoroughly mortifying way.  

But if he set that fear aside (if Ichigo could do it, so could he), he had to admit that some parts of the idea were appealing. He liked the idea of Ichigo on top of him; liked the idea of seeing a different side to him than the slutty, submissive side that he’d come to know so well (and enjoy so much) recently. He’d had hints of that other side, especially his last day or so—Ichigo had been more aggressive with him, and Grimmjow was willing to admit he thought it was hot. But while allowing himself to be held down and ridden was playfully transgressive, actually allowing himself to be… entered… was another thing altogether.  He’d need to think about it some more.

“Is that common for you Shinigami? To go either way?” Grimmjow asked.

“It’s common for Humans. The norm, I think. Shinigami… not traditionally, but it’s common nowadays,” Ichigo answered. He bit his lip, looking away. “Do you not… not like it?”

“Well, I haven’t done it in half a century, so I don’t really know,” Grimmjow answered truthfully. “I know I have liked it, at one time and another.”

Ichigo looked hopeful, and Grimmjow didn’t want to disappoint him.

“It ain’t normal for us—we tend to stick with one arrangement. In fact, it’s pretty much unheard of to switch around like yer sayin’… But I’ll think about it.”

Ichigo looked a little disappointed anyway. With a small frown, he asked, “Will you really think about it, or is that just a polite ‘no?’”

“Me, polite? I’ll really think about it. Ya know I don’t care too much about what ‘the done thing’ is,” Grimmjow promised him.

“What about just a little reminder? You can’t consider it properly if you don’t have enough data,” Ichigo suggested with a teasing little smile.

Kind of nervous and irritated with himself for it, Grimmjow asked, “What did ya have in mind?”

“I was just thinking that lunch could wait,” Ichigo said, “Because there’s something else I’d like to do with my mouth.”

Ichigo got to his knees and crawled over to where Grimmjow was sitting and licked a line of messy kisses up the side of his neck, up to his ear, where he whispered, “Let me suck your dick one more time. And while I do it, I’ll touch you with just this one little finger.”

He pressed his ring finger to Grimmjow’s lips and he granted it entrance, automatic, unthinking, and sucked at it languidly.

Any plan that involved Ichigo’s wickedly fucking talented mouth on his dick was a good plan. Seriously, the guy gave great head, and he loved doing it. He couldn’t even begin to rank his memories of these past days in terms of relative hotness, but Ichigo moaning around his dick while he sucked it slow and messy, just the way Grimmjow liked, with his hands clasped behind his back just the way Grimmjow had told him, holding off from touching his own stiff, red, copiously leaking cock expressly because Grimmjow had told him to was one he’d remember for a long time.

Grimmjow licked his lips and said, “Yeah, alright. We can try it.”

Ichigo favored him with a small smile, clearly pleased. “It’ll feel good, I promise.”

Just then, there was a muffled beeping coming from the other side of the room. It was just loud enough for Grimmjow to hear, and he wished he hadn’t heard it if it was what he thought it was.

He put a hand on Ichigo’s chest and pushed him away, then glumly told him, “Your communicator is beeping.”

“It is?” Ichigo said, adopting a listening pose, his head cocked to one side. After a moment he said, “You’ve got good ears; I can’t hear it. Where’s it coming from? It’s still on my shihakusho, I think, but I dunno where that is.”

Grimmjow pointed to the gap between the folding screens that led to the sitting area, where both sets of clothes had lain, discarded, since the first night. 

“Is it still doing it?” Ichigo asked, a bit plaintively, as if he was hoping it had stopped and he wouldn’t have to answer it. 

“Yep.”

He sighed and got off the bed, padding over to the other part of the room. As he went, he commented bemusedly, “Have we really been naked for three days?”

Grimmjow laughed at that. “Yes, yes we have, and I wouldn’t mind another week of it.”

“Me either,” Ichigo called, his voice audible over the rustling of clothes. The beeping grew louder, and a second later he heard him say, “Kurosaki here.” 

“Kurosaki, this is Yamada. How are you feeling?”

Ichigo had walked back to the doorway and was looking at Grimmjow, mixed amusement  and irritation evident on is face as he answered, “Pretty good, actually, though I was about to try and improve on that. What’s up?” 

“Sorry to interrupt. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” Yamada replied. “Your vitals are looking good—I think you’re cured. We’d like you to report to the main infirmary so we can check you out.”

Ichigo’s face fell so quickly it was comical, and Grimmjow had to grin, cocky and pleased. Ichigo didn’t want to be cured, he wanted to stay in bed with him—what higher compliment was there?

“Fine,” Ichigo said, “When?” 

“Now would be good,” Yamada replied. “The Arrancar want their Sexta back.”

Ichigo briefly surveyed himself, scratching at a flaking patch of dried come on his belly from earlier this morning, before their nap. “Give me ten minutes?” 

“That’s fine. See you soon. Yamada out.”

Ichigo sighed. “I’m gonna take a shower and get dressed.”

“Want me to join you?” Grimmjow offered, hoping for a last quickie.

“No,” Ichigo replied with another sigh, walking over to where Grimmjow was standing beside the bed.

“I don’t want to be late, sorry. But maybe they’ll tell me I need just a few more hours of pheromone exposure or whatever,” Ichigo offered hopefully, then stepped in close, nuzzling the join of Grimmjow’s neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply. 

“I don’t think so. But we already decided that the last time here wasn’t the real last time, right?” Grimmjow pointed out, hoping his sudden swell of nerves didn’t show in his voice. “I gotta have ya in my bed one of these nights. And I wanna take ya out some time, show ya that they don’t call this place ‘Las Noches’ for no reason.”

Magnanimously, Grimmjow offered, “We can even take some o’ yer friends along, make a night of it, if any o’ them are itchin’ for a real party after these endless boring diplomatic receptions the way I am.”

“A real party, huh?” Ichigo echoed, looking interested despite himself.

“Yeah. All the visitors say we throw a good party,” Grimmjow answered. “I wanna see ya dance, Kurosaki, and I wanna see ya dressed for a night on the town. Mmm, I’ll help ya with that one, show ya what someone like you wears for a night out with someone like me. We can go with whoever ya want to a couple clubs and… Oh, hey, ya haven’t tried _kestra_ yet, have ya?”

Ichigo shook his head. “Rangiku said she liked it, though. I dunno, I’ve never been into drugs…”

“Me either,” Grimmjow answered. It wasn’t strictly true, but he wasn’t into drugs anymore, so it was true enough. “It’s not a drug, it’s _kestra._ It’s just a plant… We got drugs and it ain’t one of ‘em. An’ ya drink alcohol like the rest of yer Shinigami, don’t ya?”

Ichigo laughed and said, “Well, not quite like them, the bunch of drunks, but yeah, I drink.”

“It’s the same thing, just different. Pretty much everybody smokes it on the weekends, to relax an’ have fun. Plus it don’t make ya sleepy or nauseous. Gives ya a little more energy for dancin’… and for other things.”

“Whether or not I take any, I can’t dance here! I don’t know any of the steps!” Ichigo protested.

Grimmjow grinned back, feeling the expression spreading, lascivious and wolfish, across his face. “It ain’t that kinda dancin’. I assure you, ya know the steps just fine.”

Grimmjow licked his lips, envisioning a flushed and sweating Ichigo on the dance floor, working his hips to the beat, having lost his shirt somewhere along the way, wearing only a pair of tight leather pants and a silver cuff on his wrist, marking him as taken, marking him as Grimmjow’s. It was a beautiful vision, as was the idea ditching the rest of the party and taking Ichigo to a few of the more interesting private clubs of his acquaintance. Alas, that might be a bit too advanced for Ichigo, yet. In time, perhaps. In time, if Ichigo came back to him…

Grimmjow pulled Ichigo to him, holding him tight. He was so fucking gone on this kid that he didn’t know what to do with himself other than hold on as hard as he could for as long as he could. He didn’t want Ichigo to go. He wanted to stay here forever in this glorious little bubble world the two of them had made.

Ichigo returned the embrace just as tightly, clinging to him, and they stayed like that for a long moment. When Ichigo began to pull away, Grimmjow let him go, and saw those eyes looking up at him, milk-chocolate melty and just as sweet. Fucking devastating, those eyes… Breaking him open every damn time.

Hands still warm on Grimmjow’s waist, eyes still warm on Grimmjow’s face, Ichigo said, “I’m sure we can say goodbye after this. Will you wait here? I don’t think I’ll be long in the infirmary, it seems pretty straightforward.”

Grimmjow just nodded, unable to do anything else as Ichigo stepped back and out of his hold, turning away. Ichigo grabbed a fresh black uniform out of a small closet and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The small ‘snick’ it made filled Grimmjow with a queasy dread. 

And with that, it was over. This interlude, this interstice in the endless, everyday grind was over, and he’d have to get back to his life, starting now. All things came to an end, he knew, and from the cultural exchange they’d been doing with the Shinigami, he also knew that they thought that such transience was the key to true beauty. To bloom and fall, perfect ’til the too-soon end, was better than to bloom and fade, clinging to the tree but withering—that was a central feature of Shinigami aesthetics. Grimmjow couldn’t decide whether he agreed with it or not. He thought perhaps not.

And realistically, he knew that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life holed up in here with Ichigo. It wouldn’t be practical, and he’d probably want to do other stuff eventually. But he wasn’t ready for it to end, dammit! Usually at the end of _el juramento_ he was ready to get back to his life, bored of fucking his young bedmate and eager to get on with his business. Not this time, though. He couldn’t even imagine what getting bored with Ichigo would entail—they had barely begun to explore each other. This flower need not fall yet. Surely, it was nowhere near the point of withering. 

Grimmjow sighed, a little disgusted with himself for going so soft over this kid, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to wish he had tried harder to keep his distance. It was still worrying, though—if he felt this unsettled now, what was he going to do when Ichigo left the planet? In less than a month’s time, barring some miracle that made him stay, he’d be headed off to his home, over a thousand lightyears away.

It was going to hurt, and hurt like nothing had in decades. And still, even knowing this, all he wanted was a few more minutes with Ichigo in his arms. Even knowing this, he had no real desire to try and gain what distance he could to minimize the impact when Ichigo left. He’d keep the hurt, he’d endure it willingly if it meant he could keep the way it felt when Ichigo had looked up at him that first morning, touching his face like he was made of spun gold; if it meant he could keep the way it felt to wake up with Ichigo in his arms.

_Oh, my reckless Grimmjow,_ a voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like his mother, sad and proud, asked, _what have you gotten yourself into?_ He shook his head, trying to clear it away. This was no occasion for pride; he was being a sap and an idiot, and it was stupid at best and dangerous at worst. Siding with feelings over reason was all well and good for stories, but he knew what it got people in real life. He knew what it had gotten her, anyway—it had gotten her _killed._

Maybe he was overstating the situation, all abuzz with hormones, still giddy from the aftereffects of so much good sex. Maybe he’d feel better once he got a little distance, Grimmjow thought, a few days away from those molten eyes and that intoxicating mouth, from that lithe body that felt so good against him. Yeah, right. Sure.

Fuck, but he was stupid sometimes.

* * *

Ichigo turned the water on, and since he didn’t have stripping to occupy himself with while it warmed up, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, cataloging the marks he’d accumulated on his body over the past three days. They were many—his hips were mottled with bruises, overlapping fingerprints, so many that it was hard to tell what they even were. His neck was even worse—he loved being bitten there, and Grimmjow had been more than willing to indulge him, even to the point where a few of the bites weren’t just bruises, but the red half-moons of lightly broken skin. There were both kinds of bite marks peppering his whole body, too—it was something of a shared kink, it seemed.

He turned, craning his neck to see what he could of his back in the mirror. His tops of his shoulders were covered in hickeys and bites, nearly to the same degree as his neck—what a giveaway those were, the teeth marks on the nape of his neck. No question about what exactly he’d been doing lately. And yep, his ass was spectacularly bruised, too. Yesterday, Grimmjow had made a crack about putting Ichigo over his knee and spanking him, which hadn’t got him the laugh he’d been angling for at all. The memory of what had happened after that brought a blush to Ichigo’s cheeks, and he reflected that he’d never been with someone so spontaneous and willing to experiment before.

He’d never imagined they could cover so much ground in such a short time, and yet it felt like they had barely scratched the surface of what they could do together. These past days, he’d learned a lot about a subject he’d thought he understood—his own sexuality. After that, ah, spanking thing yesterday, Grimmjow had (quite belatedly, the jerk) decided to inform him that he couldn’t blame how much he enjoyed it on _el juramento_. Nor could he blame much of what he’d been trying to pass off to both Grimmjow and himself as symptomatic of _el juramento_ on the condition—in was true in a sense that _el juramento_ made one crave submission, but only in that allowing oneself to be penetrated constituted submission for a man in Arrancar culture. 

His desire for that act itself was the only thing that could be truly blamed on his biology. _El juramento_ was perhaps partially to blame—apparently it could enhance existing submissive tendencies because of the way it left the empujador feeling out of control. Some people reacted to that uncertainty by craving the reassurance that came from having someone they trusted in control. However, that was hardly exculpatory in the way he’d originally thought. In fact, it was kind of embarrassing.

Grimmjow had laughed at how horrified he’d been, but only until he realized the true extent of Ichigo’s distress at the revelation. Then he’d dismissed Ichigo’s shame in that casual way he had that should have been infuriating but was actually kind of comforting, assuring him that such preferences were just part of being an adult among the Arrancar. Ichigo still wasn’t sure if he believed him that ‘dominant, submissive, or switch?’ was a perfectly normal getting-to-know you question here on Hueco Mundo, but he was sure that he believed him that Grimmjow didn’t think ill of him for it. 

Nor did Grimmjow seem to expect him to be like that all the time, which was equally a good thing. One big reason Ichigo had always been so afraid of revealing that kind of preference was that he didn’t want to license high-handedness or condescending behavior outside the bedroom, nor did he want to always be expected to play the submissive in it. Variety, Ichigo thought, was very much the spice of life. He did in fact have an aggressive, dominant side, though he’d suppressed it even more thoroughly than his submissive streak out of fear of going too far.

He’d even brushed up against it a few times during the _juramento_ , especially in the last day as the two of them became more comfortable with one another. He smiled at the thought of how much Grimmjow seemed to like it when he got aggressive—he wouldn’t have expected how game Grimmjow was to let him run the show, but so long as certain lines weren’t crossed, he was all for it. 

Oh, he played at not liking it, but even Ichigo could tell it was just for form’s sake. It was just a game, for Ichigo to ‘overpower’ him—though whether the game could be made a little more real when they weren’t stuck in a tiny metal room on a fragile spaceship was an intriguing question. The idea was simultaneously frightening and really damn hot. He could imagine how intensely heady it would be to rip Grimmjow’s clothes off his body with the adrenaline of a fight—or at least a round of heavy sparring—still surging through his body. He wasn’t sure if he trusted himself enough, but he did trust Grimmjow to knock some sense into him if he got too out of hand.

If that happened, he knew he wouldn’t settle for what he’d been given so far. He wanted Grimmjow’s legs wrapped around his waist out on one of the sand dunes outside of Las Noches, wanted to see the moonlight turn his skin milky-pale, both of them battered and bloody and flying high. He wanted to feel the too-tight grip of Grimmjow’s body around him, wanted to see him come apart, wanted to see him come with Ichigo’s cock inside him and Ichigo’s marks on his skin. Ichigo bit his lip—maybe a cold shower would be better.

As he stepped under the spray (warm after all); his lingering arousal faded away, turning to anxiety as he considered the reaction of the doctors and his friends to the bruising. They wouldn’t see the ass—or at least he hoped he wouldn’t get stripped and examined, and his friends certainly wouldn’t see that part—but the neck was bad enough on its own, especially as there were, along with the bites, some other bruises that were clearly identifiable as fingerprints if you were looking. That was not going to go over real well… Maybe no one would notice it, he thought hopefully. Fuck, but it had been worth it, though—he’d come so hard when Grimmjow had taken the pressure off his neck and the base of his cock at the same time, the rush of oxygen and orgasm combining to produce a truly spectacular high.

Oh, and there was that one deeper bite just above and to one side of his wrist that would be clearly visible whenever his sleeve slipped, plus its accompanying constellation of hickies. He could make up a story to explain that to people who didn’t know what happened… maybe, if he got really creative… but for the ones who did, he’d have to tell each and every one of them that Grimmjow hadn’t hurt him any way Ichigo hadn’t specifically asked for. Yeah, that was gonna be super fun. Yay.

If Renji wasn’t still mad at him, or even if he was, Ichigo would probably have to physically restrain him for long enough to explain to prevent him tearing off to pick a fight. Rukia, too. And then they’d be _concerned_. Ugh; this was going to be _terrible._ His friends were going to think he was nuts and/or being abused.

The biting and the choking and all the other stuff along the same lines had felt so right, so normal with Grimmjow. Not once had Grimmjow shied away from him, put off by something Ichigo had suggested, nor had Grimmjow ever frightened him with his desires or his general air of intensity. When it was just the two of them, it all seemed perfect.

Grimmjow was hardly unscathed from their encounter, though he wasn’t as bruised as Ichigo. Ichigo had been shocked when he’d realized how sharply his fingerprints had shown up on Grimmjow’s wrists from where Ichigo had held him down, but Grimmjow genuinely hadn’t seemed to mind, nor had he protested his own share of bites or the long and multitudinous scratches on his back where Ichigo’s fingernails had dug in while he held on. If anything, he seemed to like the marks. When the rest of society hadn’t been involved, Ichigo had liked his, too.

He got the impression that the Arrancar, on the whole, didn’t find sex that left you with souvenirs on your skin to be particularly unusual or kinky, although maybe it was just Grimmjow who was so nonchalant. But from what he’d said they were definitely more relaxed about sex in general than either Shinigami or Humans, and they just seemed a little more rough—a little less civilized—than either of the others as well, so it stood to reason that Ichigo’s spectacular bruising would be considered par for the course among them.

Washed and rinsed, Ichigo stepped out of the shower and dried off, putting on a fresh shihakusho and pinning his communicator to it. It felt a little strange to be wearing clothes—he couldn’t believe he’d spent three whole days without them! That was ridiculous. Ah, it had been great, though. He was glad to be rid of his fever and weakness, but he wished he had more time—he really did feel like he and Grimmjow had only scratched the surface of learning each other. 

Grimmjow still wasn’t dressed, which made sense since he was probably waiting to use the shower as well, though he’d recovered a small overnight bag that Ichigo hadn’t even known he brought with him.

“Yer a Shinigami again,” Grimmjow commented upon seeing him in his shihakusho.

“I never stopped being one,” Ichigo replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, ya kinda did.” Grimmjow disagreed, giving him a deliberate once-over, “I can’t imagine any o’ those black-clad bureaucrats bein’ as feisty as you, _pequeña ramera._ Ya fuck like an Arrancar, that’s for sure.”

“Do you know how any other Shinigami do it? And they’re— _we’re_ —not all like Byakuya, you know. We just didn’t bring any other troublemakers along to do diplomacy,” Ichigo told him. He wondered how Grimmjow and the Eleventh Division would get along. Either really well or really badly, and he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to tell which it was, as both would involve a lot of violence.

“I don’, an’ I don’ care to find out,” Grimmjow said, looking away, ruffling the back of his hair with his hand. “I’m sure none o’ the others would be near as good.”

Ichigo grinned, pleased both at the compliment and by Grimmjow’s embarrassed delivery. The smile fell away, though, as his thoughts turned back to the resumption of reality. 

“Hey,” he said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

‘Soon’ turned out to be a little optimistic. More than half an hour later, Ichigo officially had a clean bill of health as well as today and tomorrow on medical leave to recover from his ordeal. He was done with _el juramento_ —no fever, and his hormones were back to normal levels—well, normal for a guy who’d just spent three days doing nothing but having sex. The thorough and, at times, mortifying exam had not revealed any lingering effects of his experience. He opened the door to his infirmary room, but came up short when he found that it had been straightened up in his absence and was now Grimmjow-less. His clothes were gone from the floor, too. Ichigo’s heart sank—he really had wanted to say goodbye or at least have a parting kiss or something.

He felt… quite insulted that Grimmjow had just left, slipping out while he had his back turned. Hurt, even.

Then he spotted the note on the table, which mitigated his distress a bit. He picked it up and opened it, noting that the handwriting was awful. With some difficulty, he read:

 

_Ichigo—_

 

_My escort off this boat showed up while you were off getting medical things done to you. I told them I wanted to wait for you to come back, but they had one of my guys with them, and he told me there’s some idiocy happening in Defense at this very moment—apparently military intelligence really is a contradiction in terms. I’ve got to go put out some fires, and I figured we wouldn’t be able to have a proper goodbye (i.e. getting you back out of that grim reaper suit) with this lot out in the hallway, anyway._

 

_Do you have access to our comms system? If so, you can contact me at_

_91//2742.4872a_

 

_If not, I’m sure I’ll see you around._

 

_Don’t forget you owe me a real fight._

 

_G_

 

And so, it ended with a note. He didn’t doubt Grimmjow’s word that his hasty departure had been both reluctant and required, but it was still a let-down. An anticlimax. It was silly, Ichigo supposed. What would he have said, if he could? ‘Thank you?’ 

Perhaps. He’d learned just a bit ago in his visit to Hanataro that in addition to volunteering to serve as Ichigo’s fideicomissario, Grimmjow had been the to first figure out what was wrong with him and bring it to the attention of Captains Kuchiki and Unohana. Ichigo was sure that Unohana would have figured it out eventually—if nothing else, she’d have had to consult with the doctors in Las Noches sooner or later, and they would have figured it out. And if Grimmjow hadn’t volunteered, they’d have found someone else, so it wasn’t exactly the case that Grimmjow had saved his life, but then again it sort of was. 

Ichigo shuddered at the thought of that, of someone else. No, literally—he felt an odd sensation, like a flush only it was ice cold instead of warm, and he shivered violently. The idea felt wrong, utterly wrong. He imagined the Primera’s hands on him, Ulquiorra’s, and the idea repelled him as thoroughly as if he was thinking of banging a giant cockroach, even though there was nothing particularly repulsive about either of them. 

How odd. Was it just Arrancar? He remembered fantasizing extensively about Renji and Byakuya (honestly, Byakuya? This _el juramento_ thing had seriously messed with his taste, or at least that was his story and he was sticking to it) before Grimmjow had shown up. The notion wasn’t quite as repellent, but neither of them seemed especially appealing. Not like Grimmjow.

At any rate, neither Renji nor Byakuya would have been able to help him. It would have had to be some Arrancar, some stranger, probably. Ichigo wouldn’t have liked that; he wouldn’t have liked it at all. When they’d first met, Grimmjow had struck him as abrasive, aggressive, and a bit of a dick, but essentially trustworthy. Ichigo had trusted his instincts, and like usual, they hadn’t let him down. 

The thought of being so vulnerable in front of someone he’d never even met and didn’t trust even provisionally _was_ inherently repulsive. He felt like he’d been given something wonderful these past days, but like that, with a stranger, he knew he would have felt like something being taken from him. Instead of getting something he’d already wanted in quantities and flavors he hadn’t dared wish for, it would have been…

Ichigo didn’t know what to call what could have been, if not for Grimmjow. The word that sprang most readily to mind seemed an overstatement, but the the deep revulsion and retroactive fear he felt at the idea belied that measured judgement. He definitely owed Grimmjow some form of thanks. 

What should he do, send a note? He snorted a laugh. Maybe he should sent a bouquet? That would be even sillier. A fruit basket? No, definitely not. 

Maybe just coming right out and saying it would be the thing to do. Telling Grimmjow how much Ichigo appreciated what he’d done would normally be just the thing, but he had a feeling Grimmjow would make light of it, brush it off, not least because he wouldn’t know what else to do with gratitude like that. Ichigo would have to think about it some more.

After all, he didn’t have much else to do for the next couple days but think things over. From what Unohana had said, that was exactly what he was meant to do. He was physically well enough to resume his duties immediately—he’d been more bruised and sore than this (if in different places and for different reasons) many times and not gotten medical leave. But Unohana had seemed to think it was important for him to process his experience. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, though. 

What was he supposed to think about? Probably not the texture of Grimmjow’s hair (soft, fine, and fluffy) or the way he smelled (spicy, strange, alien yet so achingly familiar) or the way he kind of purred when he was very content. Definitely not the shape of his hipbones or the feeling of his mouth on Ichigo’s neck or the way he sounded when he came.

With a sigh, Ichigo tucked Grimmjow’s note into his shihakusho and began the walk back to his quarters. He knew he should be ecstatic that he was back to normal; healthy, rational, in control and independent. Instead he uneasy, unsettled, and unsure what to do with himself. This enforced medical leave was not going to be enjoyable, he feared. Instead of feeling like he was free at last, he just felt alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on El Juramento:  
> Ichigo gets a shock, has a flashback, meets some new people, and prepares to confront someone he hasn't seen in a long time.


	12. Visored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo gets an unexpected call.

“Kurosaki here,” Ichigo said, answering the beep of his communicator in a sleepy, irritable grumble. It was the day after his release from the infirmary, and he wasn’t ready for it to start yet so he was peeved at being woken.

Also, it was stupid that he’d gotten used to in so quickly, but he missed waking up with Grimmjow beside him—if touch was an addiction, he had relapsed after a couple years of being clean, and now he was paying for it. He missed waking up with Grimmjow’s strong arms around him, he missed waking up with Orihime’s soft body cradled against his, and he was angry with himself for needing another warm body against his like a physical ache tugging at his skin. Where the fuck had his blanket gone? He was cold. 

“Ichigo Kurosaki?” An unfamiliar voice asked.

Huh? That was weird. Who was this guy? Who would be calling him that he didn’t know? Who _could_ be calling him that he didn’t know? Their communicators were strictly short-range, hooked into the ship’s wireless network. Suddenly much more awake, Ichigo answered warily, “Yes. And may I ask who this is?”

“My name is Shinji Hirako. I’m a communication facilitator here at the offices of Hirako and Sarugaki in Las Noches.”

“Communication? Is that why you can tap into our communications network?” Ichigo asked, confused. Had he somehow been reached by some kind of _telemarketer?_

“Oh, no. That ain’t the kind of communication I facilitate. Your ship’s communications officer, Señorita—what was it?—Hinamori put my call through to you at the request of our mutual friend,” Hirako explained cryptically.

“Mutual friend?” Ichigo asked, still baffled and unnerved by being woken up by this man. 

“The Sexta.” 

Okay… That at least sort of made sense for the how, though the why of it was still unknown. Communication facilitator… Was he some kind of matchmaker? A sort of baba, a go-between? Oh, God.

“So, heh, what kind of communication do you facilitate?” Ichigo asked nervously.

“Ah, good—that’s really the question, isn’t it. In short, inner communication. Ya see, most Arrancar grow up fully integrated with their inner Hollow, but sometimes, they need a little help. That’s my job.”

Ice flooded Ichigo’s veins he processed the words. He’d… not _forgotten_ about that conversation, but not made much of an effort to recall it. Quite the opposite, in fact. How could he have been so stupid? He still couldn’t believe how astoundingly reckless he’d been to tell Grimmjow about something that could get him drummed out of the military and stuck in a hospital for the rest of time (or at least that’s what he’d thought when he said it.) He’d been so angry, angry that Grimmjow hadn’t been taking him seriously, angry that Grimmjow didn’t get how messed up and dangerous Ichigo was. Angry that he didn’t get that Orihime was right to be afraid of him.

“From birth, the two are one being, in the ordinary case,” Hirako continued, unaware of Ichigo’s sudden alarm. “One in-between being, the two parts of which hang in a kinda dynamic equilibrium. But sometimes, the inner Hollow doesn’t manifest until a little later, until, most commonly, puberty. 

“By then, the other part of the personality—until then, the only part—is completely established. It cannot accommodate such a huge change within itself, and instead of being two halves of a whole, the dominant personality and the inner Hollow are entirely separate and often entirely in conflict. My job is to facilitate communication between the two; to make a path so that healing can begin.”

Grimmjow had told him. Grimmjow had _told_ him! Ichigo was absolutely furious with him. He’d told Grimmjow about the other thing inside him in what he’d assumed they’d both understood to be the strictest confidence, and he’d gone and told this guy! That high-handed _fucker_ , Ichigo was going to kill him! Seriously, he wanted a fight? Well he was goddamn getting one now. 

 _Shit,_ Ichigo thought, _shit, shit, shit…_ How could he do that? It was a colossal betrayal of trust. How dare he? How dare he let on that Ichigo was this fucked up? He didn’t want another person to know. He didn’t know this Shinji Hirako and he didn’t want him to know that there was another guy inside his head! Ichigo had been so _stupid_ to tell Grimmjow, off his head on fucking pheromones or whatever. God, he wanted to punch himself in the face for being such an idiot.

“The channel is open, Kurosaki. I can hear you panicking—seriously, breathe slower or you’ll pass out.”

Ichigo drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down, his cheeks flaming, embarrassment at his transparency joining the party that anger and shock and shame had started.

“Calm the hell down, already,” Hirako groused, sounding exasperated. “All I wanna do is have ya come down to my office and hear me out. The Sexta told me ya talked about this so I dunno why yer freakin’ out.”

There are people who specialize in this, Grimmjow had said. Ichigo remembered now, but he’d beed too unbalanced by the revelation that he wasn’t any crazier than any other Arrancar to may much attention to the kind of counseling or whatever that might help him. And it wasn’t like Grimmjow said he was going to call them up without so much as a by-your-leave!

“You want me to come see you? Why should I?” Ichigo asked, his voice too high.

“Because I think your situation is a lot like the kind of Arrancar I described, the kind we call ‘Visored.’ I’m a Visored, and I’ve helped a lot of others. I think I can help ya, get some peace talks goin’ in that head o’ yours. And once ya stop spendin’ your energy fightin’ amongst yourself, you’ll be much, much stronger. Right now more than half of your potential’s goin’ to waste.”

What should he do? Lie? That would be pointless. Hirako already knew, from a source he probably trusted more than Ichigo. 

“I’m doing fine on my own! I don’t need help from _that._ ” Ichigo answered, after a moment’s hesitation. It didn’t come out as firm as it should, though—the prospect of being twice as strong as he was now was seductive. He’d always be able to protect his friends and family if he was that strong. He would have to fear no one. But no, no, the price was too high. He refused to work with the other guy, and he knew the other guy wouldn’t want to work with him anyway.

Hirako’s voice turned softer, and Ichigo guessed with rising trepidation that he was the kind of guy where that meant he was bringing the out the big guns. “Doing fine on your own, eh? And how long has it been since your last blackout, hmm?”

Ichigo’s breath caught in his throat. How the hell could Hirako know about…

 

_Ichigo awoke in a strange room with a funny smell. He struggled into a sitting position._

_How had he come to be here? Had he been kidnapped? What was going to happen to him?_

_With growing alarm, he realized he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here at all. The last thing he remembered was getting into a fight. He’d found the same senpai that teased him relentlessly for his odd hair harassing Tatsuki’s friend Inoue for the same reason, and worse, making some comments that had frightened her about they way she’d grown over the summer._

_There had definitely been a fight… He’d promised Dad he wouldn’t use his powers, though, and Tanaka was a year older, three inches taller, and a good deal heavier than Ichigo. He’d been losing, and then…_

_“Ah, Ichigo, you’re awake,” a voice said, startling him out of his contemplation. It was Mr. Urahara. A lot of people thought that Mr. Urahara was some kind of weirdo, but he was Ichigo’s dad’s friend, so it was okay. Although, Ichigo supposed, his current predicament might be evidence for the ‘weirdo’ hypothesis. Ichigo knew about hypotheses from last week’s science class, and he knew about weirdos that kidnapped boys from the news._

_Mr. Urahara came over and peered at him, but he didn’t look like he was sizing Ichigo up for some immoral purpose, although Ichigo was not entirely sure what just what an immoral purpose was, so he could be wrong. Puzzlingly, he said, “Good. It’s you in there again.”_

_“Who…” Who else would it be, Ichigo started to ask, but before he could finish the sentence, his eyes started stinging like he was going to cry and his throat got so tight that he couldn’t speak. He saw a ghost-pale laughing face in his mind, one that looked like his. It said, “Who else would it be? The guy that solves the problems that weaklings like you can’t, of course.”_

_The “who else would it be?” he’d meant to say came out scared and sniffly and with different words entirely. “Who is… who is that?”_

_“Who is who, Ichigo?” Mr. Urahara asked, crouching down to be at eye-level with Ichigo, who had just struggled into a seated position. His body hurt all over._

_“The boy,” Ichigo answered, frightened._

_“What boy? Where?”_

_Ichigo tapped the side of his head by way of response. “The other boy in here.”_

_Ichigo had seen the other boy a few times; talked to him, in his dreams, mostly. Sometimes when he was awake, too. He knew it was strange, knew it probably meant he was crazy. Hearing voices…what was that called? Sukitso-something? The other boy was certainly crazy, and if he was inside Ichigo’s head, then Ichigo must be crazy, too._

_He’d never told anyone about him, not even his dad, but Ichigo was so disoriented and scared that he couldn’t help but tell the truth. Why couldn’t he remember how his fight with Tanaka-senpai had ended?_

_“What’s he look like?” Mr. Urahara asked, which surprised Ichigo. He’d been expecting to hear that there was no other boy; to stop pretending and playing games. Why did Mr. Urahara believe him? It was simultaneously a huge relief and even more frightening._

_“He looks like me except his face is white and hair and clothes are all white,” Ichigo answered, staring at his hands in his lap. They were bruised, and, he noted numbly, bloody. Not just his knuckles; there was blood all over them. “Really white. And his eyes are black and yellow. And the inside of his mouth is dark blue.”_

_“Yes, that sounds about right,” Mr. Urahara said, then he took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together in a ‘let’s get started’ gesture. He grabbed a cup that was sitting nearby and held it out. “Okay. Drink this, Ichigo—it’ll make you go back to sleep. When you wake up, they other boy shouldn’t bother you anymore, or at least he won’t be able to come out.”_

_Ichigo scuttled back, away from Mr. Urahara, alarmed. “Come out? Is that what happened? Like, he was the one who controlled my body?”_

_He looked down at his hands again and then back to Mr. Urahara, who nodded._

_Looking down again, Ichigo hated the way his voice sounded so small and scared when he asked, “Is… is Tanaka-senpai dead?”_

_“Why do you ask that?” Mr. Urahara queried gently. For the first time, Ichigo noticed that there were bruises and deep scratches on his face and he held himself like maybe he had a couple broken ribs._

_“That’s what the other boy thought I should do. Tanaka was always picking on me, you know. And then Inoue, too, saying all kinds of things… The other boy thought I should hurt him to make him stop or even kill him. It made the other boy mad that I wouldn’t use my strength to make him go away, but I promised Dad I wouldn’t,” Ichigo explained, wishing Urahara would just answer the damn question._

_“Tanaka-kun’s alive. Tessai and I got to you in time. Tessai is healing him right now, but I won’t lie to you, he’s very badly injured. Y—the other boy would have killed him, I think, and even now, if there were only human doctors to treat him, he might die. But Tessai is the very best at Kido—and I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. At the time we left Seireitei, Tessai was the greatest living Kido master. Don’t worry, Tanaka will be fine, and he won’t remember a thing.”_

_Ichigo let out a breath. Tanaka was going to be okay—Mr. Urahara and Mr. Tessai had saved him. The other boy might be other, but he was inside Ichigo’s head and what he did was Ichigo’s responsibility. It was Ichigo’s job to protect his friends and even his enemies from him._

_“Once Tessai is done with Tanaka, he and I are going to cast a Kido on you—not a healing, but a seal. This will make sure that the other boy cannot take over your body. But you need to be unconscious, so you have to drink this first,” Mr. Urahara explained._

_Without a word, Ichigo held out his hand and took the cup, drank it all down, and crumpled to the floor._

 

Ichigo blinked, trying to shake off the memory that Hirako’s words had triggered.  “Not since I was thirteen,” he said, answering Hirako’s question. “So almost twelve years. I have it under control.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Hirako said. “Ya must be strong-willed. But ya can’t hold what’s inside ya off forever; someday you’ll slip up, and it won’t be pretty.”

Grudgingly, Ichigo admitted, “It’s not me. You guys have Kido, right? There’s a seal on on me, on… him, that was put on by a Kido master.”

“Hmm…” Hirako hummed, contemplative. “I would really like to take a look at that. I’ve never heard of one holding even this long. I wonder when it will start to fail, and what will happen when it does.” 

Ichigo thought about his last really serious fight, just him against a pack of Menos Grande on one of the Shinigami colony worlds. He thought about the way he’d been forced to use his strongest attack again and again, the other guy’s attack, the black Getsugatensho. How he’d felt the other guy’s voice in his mind, growing louder each time as if he’d been coming closer. 

He’d stayed closer. He hadn’t receded as much as he used to. He wasn’t so close that Ichigo had to fight him for control, like he had near the end of that fight, but he wascloser than he’d been before it. Ichigo could feel his influence, malicious and sharp, Ichigo could hear his laughter, sometimes, when he was falling asleep.

If Ichigo got into a bad situation like that again, he wondered if he could hold the other guy off.

“If the seal is weakened, can you fix it?” Ichigo asked, hopeful.

His hopes were promptly crushed. “No. That’s not how we do things. No seal can hold forever, and each successive application will take hold less fully than the last. Perhaps ya can put this off, but ya can’t evade it forever, nor should ya. Your inner hollow is a part of ya—it’s not right to reject it so utterly. Stuffing it in a box only makes it rage harder—if it were to get out right now, I would expect no survivors on that ship of yours. Ya gotta make peace.”

Ichigo closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart, but when he did he only saw Rukia’s and Renji’s bodies floating frozen and distorted in space. “Alright. Alright, I’ll try. When do you want me to come down?”

…

…

Shinji Hirako looked more like a Shinigami or Human than an Arrancar. He had no mask; no visible _agujero_ , thought that could be under his clothes. He was a skinny—not wiry, not lanky, but actually skinny—guy of an unguessable age, though he wasn’t old. He had terrible hair, a sort of elongated blonde bowl cut with straight bangs that hung in his eyes. Maybe it was long enough to call it a bob? Did guys have bobs? Whatever it was, it was ugly. 

He had a smile that made him appear to have significantly more than the standard number of teeth and wore a very purple shirt. His reiatsu, in its resting state, felt more like a Shinigami than an Arrancar, too, though not quite like either. He also wore too much cologne, which was odd for an Arrancar, who tended to favor subtle scents due to their excellent noses. Ichigo imagined that if Grimmjow were here, he’d be sneezing in distress.

Ichigo instantly disliked him, but he was self-aware enough to suspect that might be because he felt like he was so thoroughly on the defensive with this guy. He was here, after all, to talk about something deeply personal that he had no particular wish to discuss. Hirako proffered a hand and Ichigo shook it. 

“Hello, Ichigo,” Hirako said, over-familiar. Ichigo had given him precisely zero indication that it was okay to call him by his first name. “Let’s go meet Hachi; he’ll take a look at that seal of yours before we get things rolling. Our Kido, presumably, has evolved a little differently over the years than yours, but the basics oughtta be the same.”

“Sure,” Ichigo said warily, and followed Hirako to a very odd office, in which everything was built to about one and a half times its normal size. When the office’s inhabitant ducked (and Ichigo really did mean ducked) into the room, it became clear why this was so. He was closer to three meters tall than two, and had weigh at least a quarter ton, maybe closer to half. This Hachi was one big dude. Standing in his made-to-fit office with him was a surreal experience.

There were guys like this on Soul Society, too, whose unusual reiryoku had forced their bodies to grow in strange ways. Jirobo the gatekeeper was even bigger than Hachi, after all. Hachi was nothing like Jirobo, though—if Ichigo mentally scaled him down, his overall aspect was of a shy, kindly man; a bookish type if Ichigo had ever seen one. 

“I am Hachigen Ushoda,” Hachigen Ushoda greeted him in a soft voice. (Ichigo had already tagged him Hachi, having not realized it was a nickname, and now he didn’t quite know what to call him in his head). “And you must be Ichigo Kurosaki. Welcome to our office.”

“Uh, thanks,” Ichigo said, assaying a small smile. Hachi looked genuinely pleased to have him here, so that was good, he supposed.

“If you will come stand over here, in the center of the circle?” Hachi asked, and Ichigo did as he was bid, entering the… ‘circle’ was a bit of an misnomer (or possibly a technical term? Ichigo knew next to nothing about Kido) for the complex, multi-pointed, multi-layered star pattern  chalked onto the floor in Hachi’s workspace. After he entered, he felt a shiver up his spine as the circle closed around him.

“I’m going to say an incantation, but it’s just so I’ll be able to see the your seal. It won’t affect it otherwise. I can sense that it’s meant to stay hidden from casual inspection, so bear with me for a moment, please, Kurosaki,” Hachi said and Ichigo nodded nervously.

“All things come open before the eyes of the seven hills; I seek you. Queen of jasmine, mother, five-thousand whispers of air and darkness, knight of cups; I seek you. Salamanders, stones, treasures, palaces, jealously guarded spines of chartreuse feathers; I seek you,” Hachi intoned, his voice rising as he recited the incantation.

He continued, his soft voice turning to something resounding, something that shook the room, as he neared the climax of the lengthy incantation. Ichigo noted absently that he’d never heard a repeated phrase like that in Shinigami-style kido. “The nightingale sings, the fox screams, fifty-two maidens turn to ruby; I seek you! Snakes write their tails on black hearts and bone; I seek you! Light shines upon the engraved soul of the mixed blessing—REVEAL YOURSELF!”

Ichigo felt a… pain? A strange electric feeling in a pattern on his face, back and chest, even his legs. Or wait, not a pattern—not a still pattern, anyway. The prickly lines were _moving;_ he could feel them. He looked down at his himself and could see the patterns streaming across his hands, resolving themselves into writing—characters, symbols, letters, hell, even numbers, flowing in layers and lines over his skin. Except for one spot, where the almost-pain was concentrated, right in the center of his chest.

He tugged the vee of his shihakusho’s neck further open to see if he could see anything, and his heart flopped in his chest, skipping a beat as he saw a glowing circle right over top of it, like an _agujero_ , only made of light instead of emptiness. 

“If you could remove your clothing, please,” Hachi said, once again soft-spoken, gesturing at Ichigo’s clothes. 

Ichigo was so shaken and awed by this reminder of Urahara and Tessai’s kido written onto his body and, he supposed, his soul, that he had no emotional space left for embarrassment as he stripped off his shihakusho. The writing flowed and writhed over his entire body, sometimes in lines, sometimes in curves, moving in different directions to form shapes and patterns that were there in one instant and gone in another.

“This is a masterwork,” Hachi breathed as he took in the full effect. “I have never seen a seal so complex—It must’ve taken days to lay.”

“I think… it was a long time ago, but I think I was out for about a day and a half,” Ichigo said. “There were two of them, though—Kisuke Urahara and Tessai Tsukabishi. From what I learned later, Tessai used to be the head of the Kido Corps in Seireitei, and Urahara is considered something of an R&D genius. 

“I would very much like to meet the men who created this,” Hachi commented.

“So how’s it holding up?” Hirako asked, stepping closer.

“Hmm… Amazingly well, over this much time. If Mr. Kurosaki here were to avoid any particular exertion, it might last another five years. But it is thinning; it is fraying—I can see weak spots. In combat… It could snap any time.” Hachi said, bending close to look at the patterns.

Hachi pulled back from his examination and addressed them both. “This is by far the most effective seal of this type I have ever seen. However, when it was laid, its authors were unable to anticipate the sheer quantity of energy it would need to contain as Mr. Kurosaki approached maturity. Your Inner Hollow, Kurosaki, is exactly as strong as the other part of you—and you are unusually strong.”

Hirako made a noise that sounded like either a cough or possibly the word “understatement.”

Ichigo took a deep breath and proceeded the way he usually did in life—head-first. “Well,  not exerting myself is not an option. For one thing, it’s my job, and for another, I owe somebody some serious beat-down, and I really don’t want to lose control of my body during it and go on a rampage. So, let’s get this show on the road.”

Hirako raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t ya, like, need to ask your boss or something?”

Ichigo considered this, then answered, “Probably. But his job is to be cautious, and I’ve always found it easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Hirako grinned at this, then turned to Hachi and asked, “Can you loosen the seal a little?” 

Hachi shook his head. “No. I can break it, but I can’t loosen it. Nor can I reinforce it. The style is too different from my own; maybe if I had a the original notes and a year to study them, I could take it down gradually, but as of now, I cannot.”

“Shit,” Hirako said, then he sighed and turned to Ichigo. “Looks like you’re doing this the hard way—and the hard way, there’s no guarantee. There’s no way to get your inner Hollow to listen to you except by force. You either win or you lose against the thing inside you—and if you lose, you die. You’ll turn into a Hollow and we can’t bring you back. The best we can do then is make sure you don’t hurt anyone else. If you win, though, it won’t fix everything all at once but it will lay the groundwork for future understanding as well as make you a proper Visored.”

“I’m a combat soldier,” Ichigo answered, shrugging. “This diplomacy gig is like a vacation. I fight Hollows for a living—big, mean ones. Great huge hordes of regular ones. Life and death are always the stakes. And from what you said, it’s either this or go hide in my quarters and hope like hell nobody needs me for anything until this seal can be re-done, then live in constant fear of it breaking. If there is one thing that I’m sure of, it’s that I will not risk my friends and comrades.”

Ichigo took a deep breath and them favored Hirako with a confident smile. “Let’s do this thing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you found yourself missing Grimmjow this chapter, why don't you give my new one-shot a try? Written in honor of Grimmjow's birthday, it's an established relationship PWP + GJ character study with a late-summer vibe. Here it is: [I Change Shapes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7645186)


	13. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo meets his other half, and no, I'm not talking about Grimmjow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not totally happy with this chapter...  
> Fight scenes are _hard._  
>  If you have any pointers, let me know, because there's another one coming up pretty soon.
> 
> Also I have SO MUCH ANXIETY about tomorrow you guys. 686 >:  
> [post-686 (no spoilers) ETA: I JUST FUCKING HATE TIMESKIP ENDINGS SO MUCH. I haven't been this pissed about an ending/epilogue since Harry Potter.]
> 
> But no matter how it pans out, even if I'm totally disgusted with all things Bleach [ETA #2:WHICH I AM], I'm gonna finish this. *determined*
> 
> Also, sorry for not replying to reviews lately! I feel like it would be weird now to do it when they're all 2 weeks-10 days old so I'll just promise be better in the future!
> 
> Chapter title from The Beatles song "I am the Walrus."  
> Also, just in the name of honesty and non-plagiarism, Chapter 2 title is from The Kills "URA Fever", Chapter 7 is from "The Future Starts Slow" by the same band, and Chapter 10 is from TV on the Radio's "Wolf Like Me" which is a song that uses lycanthropy as a metaphor for sex. It's a great song. And a great metaphor.

Hirako led the way to a big warehouse that was decked out like a patch of Hueco Mundo scrubland. The rest of Hirako’s team was summoned and Ichigo was introduced to them one after the other, but he was so nervous that their names went right out of his head as soon as they went in. Hachi cast a barrier around the area—at Ichigo’s inquiry, Hirako explained that while Ichigo was battling his Inner Hollow inside his head, his body would be far from inanimate, turning into a raging beast, more mindless even than an ordinary Hollow in an expression of the rage that part of him felt at being suppressed for so long. That’s why Hirako’s team was here, to keep him busy while he was in that state.

Hachi cast another barrier. Then another, then another, and finally one more, reinforced with two layers of double incantation. The whole thing took about fifteen minutes. 

“Is all this really necessary?” Ichigo asked, a few minutes into the process.

Hirako stated simply, “Yes.” 

Right then, Ichigo thought. It was kind of flattering, he supposed, that the man had such a high regard for his strength. Or the strength of the other guy, at any rate. Was Ichigo’s body going to literally turn into a monster, he wondered? Some people had more physical transformation for their Bankai than he did, so it wasn’t totally inconceivable. He tried to imagine what he might look like, but after a minute or so of this he realized he was only envisioning monsters from movies and the like. He was probably not going to turn into, like, Mothra or something. He sure as hell hoped not, anyway. Though the wings would be cool, he supposed. But it wasn’t like he needed wings to fly; he could do that anyway, sort of.

Flying… he could go for some of that right now. Or running, or, he didn’t know, doing jumping jacks or something. Standing here in one place was fucking _killing_ him right now, adrenaline coursing through his veins and his body screaming at him to move.

No, he didn’t want to think about killing and screaming, because what if Hirako and company couldn’t handle his maddened, transformed self? If Ichigo lost and they all did, too, would the barriers hold him? Or would he make his way back to the city and start rampaging there? Who would come to take him down, he wondered. The police? The military? The military… Surely it wouldn’t be Grimmjow’s job, personally. Maybe the _Genryuusai_ or one of the Arrancar’s own ships would just blast him from orbit.

Ichigo’s anxiety was a roiling sea of molten lead in the pit of his stomach and a jangling restlessness in his arms and legs. It was a giant fist squeezing his lungs, making his breath come too fast, too shallow. His brain felt like a hamster on a wheel, running and running and getting nowhere. This was stupid, why hadn’t he told anyone what he was doing? Well, if this went bad, Hirako and company would tell Ichigo’s friends. Unless Ichigo killed them all, that was.

No, that wouldn’t happen. Ichigo would win his battle with himself. This was just like any other fight. Hirako had said he and his inner hollow were of equal strength, so they would be well matched, but Ichigo had won fights with worse odds on stubbornness alone. He could do it again.

But then why was he so nervous? He got pre-combat nerves like anybody else, but not like this, not his hands fucking shaking, not this kind of—

“We’re ready. Are you?” Hirako asked, interrupting Ichigo’s thoughts. 

“Um, yeah,” Ichigo said. “Got any tips?”

Hirako looked at him for a long moment, head cocked to the side, considering, then he said, “This isn’t a fight that will be decided by reiatsu or muscle. It’s in part about resolve, but there’s more to it than that. I know it sounds cheesy, but you’ve got to believe in yourself. You’ve got to believe that you truly deserve to be the one running the show. Your inner hollow is a part of you, and in a way, he wants to help you succeed—at least, he wants to help you succeed as he conceptualizes success. When he took you over in the past, it was because he thought you couldn’t get the job done without him. He thinks you’re weak. Show him you aren’t.”

Ichigo nodded, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. He wasn’t a scared kid anymore. “Alright, let’s go.”

Ichigo walked into the center of the nested barriers and gave Hachi a nod. Hachi looked to Hirako, who nodded. He looked back to Ichigo and clapped his hands together once, then Ichigo’s world turned to nothing but crackling silver-white pain. 

It hurt too much to scream. Ichigo fell to his knees, his vision narrowing, darkening. He was still falling, and he tried to catch himself on his hands but couldn’t make his body move. The thud of his face impacting the ground didn’t even register, a tiny drop in the bucket, a tiny drop in the electric ocean of pain. It was dark, and he couldn’t hear anything—he was only pain, and then he was nothing at all. 

Ichigo came to on the flat plane of a man-made surface, not the dirt floor of the warehouse. It didn’t hurt anymore, but the memory of it was there, still sharp, still—Ichigo gasped and sat up, jerked into full awareness by the memory of the way his unsealing had burned through his body like nothing he’d ever imagined. 

His eyes fixed on the figure standing a few yards away, and he pushed himself to his feet, using Zangetsu as a prop because he still felt shaky from the memory of that pain. There he was, the other guy, just like like Ichigo had pictured him. He’d felt his presence and heard his voice, but he’d never actually seen him since the sealing—back then he’d been a kid that looked just like Ichigo, except for his coloring and expression. He was the same, grown up now to match Ichigo. White skin, white hair, white shihakusho… a white Zangetsu resting against one shoulder.  The only things that weren’t white were his black and gold eyes. 

Ichigo walked closer, and as he did, the other guy greeted him with a wide, manic grin. The expression was bizarre and disturbing to see on a face so like his own. “Long time no see, Ichigo.”

With horrified fascination, Ichigo noticed that the inside of his doppelganger’s mouth was a deep blue-black. Would he bleed red? Or did he have some kind of black ichor inside him?

“Yeah,” Ichigo said, unsure of what to say or do. He hadn’t expected talking, somehow.

“I know why you’re here. You think you’re gonna fight me,” the other guy said.

“Unless you’re going to agree not to take over my body, then yes. I will defeat you,” Ichigo said simply.

“Tch—I don’t just roll over and do what I’m told, unlike some people,” the other guy said. 

“Neither do I,” Ichigo replied, a little stung. Of all the things Ichigo had been accused of being, a pushover was not one. He’d barely been allowed to stay in the military, he was so insubordinate.

Suddenly Byakuya appeared, but not really Byakuya, Byakuya exactly as Ichigo had seen him the afternoon before all the weirdness started. He said, “You will go to the reception. You will be ‘on the clock,’ as it were—if you waste your time talking to your fellow Shinigami and those among the Arrancar you have already befriended like you did last time, you will answer to me.”

“You let him dictate to you like that, it’s disgusting. Answer to him? I could destroy him. Even you could kick his flowery ass and you know it,” the other guy sneered.

“I didn’t do what he said because I’m afraid of him, I did what he said because he’s my boss, it’s my job, and I didn’t have any real reason to disobey orders. That’s how you be an adult, man. That’s how you be a soldier,” Ichigo replied. What did this guy want him to do? Even Kenpachi Zaraki took orders from the Captain-Commander… Sort-of. 

“Oh,” the other guy said, this faux-enlightened look on his face. “So you only let people tell you what to do when you’re at work. It’s not like you do it for fun or anything…”

Ichigo knew what was coming the split-second before it happened, but this time, he was watching the whole scene play out in third person, and instead of just his interlocutor, he was there too.

Grimmjow said, “Sit up; on your knees.”

The image of Ichigo knelt obediently, and the actual real-time Ichigo was torn between wincing in embarrassment at the naked hunger on his past self’s face and trying to suppress the arousal the memory caused, even under these circumstances.

“You’ve been bad, haven’t ya?” Grimmjow asked, looking down at Ichigo with an unholy excitement dancing in his eyes. Ichigo hadn’t seen that at the time, how much Grimmjow had enjoyed his sudden submission.

“Yes,” Ichigo admitted meekly, eyes downcast.

The image froze, and the other guy strolled around to peer at the frozen Ichigo’s face. “Look at you! I have to sit here and watch this! It’s fucking disgusting! This is why I’m gonna take you down, Ichigo, and put you out of your goddamn misery. When I’m in charge, those knees are never touching the floor again. I’ll make them kneel for me, beg for me, bend over for _me_. _Not the fucking other way around!_ ”

He slapped the frozen Ichigo’s face and he became animated again, reacting to the hit by looking up at the other guy with glazed reverence and allowing himself to be hauled off the bed by the hair and thrown to the floor, cringing at the other guy’s feet, still naked and hard as the other guy’s fingers twisted cruelly in his hair. 

The other guy didn’t even look at the copy, just stared right at Ichigo and said, “You’ve got more power than you know what to do with, but you let yourself become this… _creature_ instead of the _king of the fucking world_ like you could be. You won’t reach out and take it because you’re afraid—why? Because you’re a giant pussy, Ichigo, and apparently, you like dick more than you like victory. That’s right, ya can’t man up enough to take what should be yours—it’s a good thing you’re such a talented cocksucker ‘cause you sure aint’ g—.”

“Enough of this!” Ichigo roared, coming out of his shock into a world of rage and drawing his sword, his reiatsu whipping into a frenzied storm even here in this strange inner space. “I don’t give a _fuck_ about your twisted fantasies. If you think anything you just showed me makes me weak then _come the fuck at me!”_  

His opponent grinned his manic grin again and leapt at him, swinging his version of Zangetsu by the trailing end of the hilt’s wrappings, letting out more and more slack as he whipped it around and around in a circle to pick up speed, and then let it fly. The massive sword swept in from his right, straight at Ichigo’s head. He ducked it instead of blocking—he had to, the strike was too fast for him to get his own sword up in time.

It pissed Ichigo off that he’d made such a poor showing on the first exchange, so he used the moment where the flying blade kept on whipping around in its long arc, unable to be redirected so quickly, to get in under it and slash at the Hollow’s legs. He missed, the other backing away too quickly, and in his anger he tried again even though he knew he didn’t have time, and so had to tuck and roll out of the way of a vicious overhead strike that would have come down on his spine like a cleaver on a chicken, cutting him neatly in half.

He came up on his feet just in time to dodge another flying slash. This was not going well. He’d been taken off guard by this weird, wild technique and totally lost the initiative, not to mention having to re-strategize on the fly. This wasn’t an opponent with this same reach as him like he’d anticipated, this was like fighting Shuuhei Hisagi and his Kazeshini _combined_ with another version of Ichigo himself.

Ichigo’s biggest asset was usually his speed, but his Hollow was _fast_. The way he used his sword as a flail made him effectively even faster, taking advantage of the fact that a big-ass sharp-as-hell sword had a lot of momentum and very little drag. 

Shinji had said that strength wouldn’t decide this fight, but he’d never said anything about speed. It was probably included in that assessment, but Ichigo couldn’t not try to give himself the speed advantage that was his usual stock-in-trade. He’d been trying to learn to rely less on it, but… “Bankai!”

Oh, right. Fucking _of course._ Ichigo glared at the figure across from him in the long, white coat gripping a thin, white blade. He was an idiot for not expecting that.

Fine, then.

They’d do this the hard way.

Ichigo exploded off the ground with a yell and the same second as the other guy, the two of them whipping past each other, slashing, his opponent only a glint of light off a white blade.

Tensa Zangetsu was so sharp that there was barely any difference between cutting through air and flesh, and for a moment, Ichigo thought maybe he’d scored a hit.

Then he stumbled, forced to one knee as a searing pain tore through his shoulder and chest. He tried to catch himself with his hands but only one of them really worked, his left too painful to move. The world wobbled, darkening at the edges, and the sound faded out, everything but the tinny feedback squall of his ears ringing and the crackle of his harsh breathing like late-night static in his ears. White noise. Snow. Dead air.

He breathed in, looked down, saw red. He breathed out, kept staring, kept bleeding.

He breathed in, thought _this isn’t a killing blow, not unless the fight drags on and I slowly bleed out._ He breathed out. It wasn’t his sword hand that was partially disabled, so it was okay. 

The fight would not drag on.

Ichigo would win.

The sound of sandaled footsteps running up behind him faded into his dead-air hearing in a sudden crescendo and he rolled to the right, avoiding another one of those two-handed chicken-chopper swings, no finesse and all force.

Too much force. His opponent smashed the concrete underneath them, impossibly loud, forming a crater in the… what was this anyway, the side of a building but horizontal? In the floor, anyway, whatever it was, pelting them both with chunks of concrete, and kicking up great gouts of dust, ejecta turning his footing treacherous.

Ichigo rolled to his feet, bent his knees and threw himself into the sky on a surge of reishi like he was a bottle rocket to put some distance between them as he gathered up his reiatsu, condensed it along the length of his sword, forming a second, parallel blade that alongside the physical one. He poured more power into it, more and more until his whole body was thrumming with it, vibrating, his molecules jarring against each other like the weak forces that held them together were being stretched to their limit. He didn’t release it until his vision had started to fade and his defiant cry had become something more like a scream of pain, hurling it at this mouthy fucker that lived inside his head. “Getsugatenshou!”

It connected. He felt the other’s reiatsu swamped by his own, black and red eating up his white, but at the same time he knew the other wasn’t done, wasn’t down. He was too angry to go down this easily, too angry at Ichigo for humiliating them. And Ichigo could relate, of course he could, and he’d been worrying at the issue himself for days. He’d begged, he’d obeyed, he’d fucking _cried_ , he’d fed Grimmjow’s hunger for his submission and distress willingly and gotten off on it harder than he’d ever gotten off on anything before in his life. Ichigo’s defiance and refusal to bend to another’s will was legendary among the Shinigami, and he’d folded under Grimmjow like he’d been waiting to do it all along.

He hadn’t come to any answers. He was torn, part of him horrified and humiliated, thinking he must be sick in the head for so willingly letting Grimmjow use and abuse him, part of him as proud and defiant as ever, saying ‘So what? Who cares what I get off on? I do what I want, and if what I want is to lay by burdens and my body at another’s feet for a little while from time to time, so be it.”

It wasn’t until this moment, until he’d felt the other’s anger, that he realized he didn’t really share it. Ichigo was suddenly and surely in the “So what?” camp. He was maybe embarrassed by his behavior, and he definitely didn’t want anyone but Grimmjow to know, but he wasn’t really ashamed. He didn’t feel like he’d let himself down, or anyone else. His desires were his desires, and that was all.

None of that defined him. It was a part of him, that desire to submit, the thrill of pain, the craving to be put in his place, but it wasn’t the only part. Ichigo had many facets, many aspects, including this asshole who was shoving himself to his feet amid a swirl of concrete dust and crackles of reiatsu. 

Suddenly and surely, Ichigo knew what he had to do, now, knew what was needed here. He needed to let the aspects of himself that had crystallized into this being because he’d been shoving them down as hard as he could flow into him, fill him up. He needed to feel what he’d been afraid to feel his whole life. It was scary, because this time, it wasn’t just himself that was at risk. If he truly became the other…

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t _become_ the other any more than he had _become_ the Ichigo who reveled in the effacement of self and the loss of control. It wasn’t about becoming. Those aspects of himself could come out sometimes, but ultimately they would balance each other out, on the whole, sustaining a dynamic equilibrium in his mind—not just the balance between these two, but between all the aspects of his self.

His sword would be the conduit. His Zanpakuto, the part of him that was Zangetsu would be the bridge between the two Ichigo’s, allowing all the dark urges that made up this white creature to enter into him and fuse themselves to his soul. He would not always allow himself to act on them, but he would allow himself to feel them because they were a part of him and to do otherwise was to sustain a wrongness, a rending of his soul.

He used another rocket-booster surge of reishi to fling himself at his opponent, not waiting for him to fully recover himself like he normally would, his blade parallel to his body, ready to pierce the other’s heart.

The other blocked, his eyes wide, shocked at Ichigo’s sudden ferocity.

Ichigo struck again, and the other parried, Ichigo’s blade skittering off to the side, leaving him wide open. Instead of dodging backwards, he leapt forwards so fast that his hollow bring his sword back up in time, Ichigo’s own heavy blade trailing behind him, held one-handed in his right hand while he gritted his teeth through the immense pain of forcing his left arm to move, to pull back to his waist and then lash out in a vicious cross to his hollow-self’s midsection. He stumbled back a pace, the breath knocked out of him.

Ichigo struck out again, and the other guy managed to block it, barely, but it was so sloppy that he was forced back another few paces, getting closer and closer to the edge of the building.

His hollow looked confused—Ichigo wasn’t playing by his own rules. He also looked _afraid_ , Ichigo could see it in his eyes. Black and crimson tendrils of reiatsu reached for Ichigo and he let them, let himself drink them in, drink in his opponent’s shock/defiance/fear and taste it on his tongue.

It tasted good.

He lashed out again, and again, and again, a smile starting on his lips and stretching into a mad grin as he drove the other guy further and further back towards the edge of the building. At last the other stepped back and his foot landed on nothing. His black and gold eyes went wide in shock and terror for a strange, stretched-out moment before he fell, disappearing out of view. Ichigo dove after him, pouring on speed as he fell down, down, headed for the bottom but before he hit he would—

Zangetsu pierced the other’s chest, sliding into him like a hot knife through butter, His hollow gasped, eyes wide, and he was afraid of Ichigo as Ichigo’s blade shone black, energy flowing through it and into Ichigo. He was afraid of Ichigo, and that was something Ichigo hated most of all, to be feared.

He was afraid of Ichigo, but it wasn’t making him feel as sick as it usually did.

He was afraid of Ichigo…

Ichigo smiled. 

And it was then, in the last moment before it all went black again, that he saw the other guy smile back, satisfied.

* * *

The next time Ichigo woke up he was on a couch. It was a leather couch, sticking to his skin unpleasantly in the way leather couches did. 

He opened his eyes, and saw Shinji looking down at him. His face hurt to look at.

“Mmm…’r am I?” Ichigo asked, his head fuzzy and a little sore, dehydrated.

Hangover? No…

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He’d been fighting… 

Oh, right. He’d fought himself. His other self. He’d won… sort of. He felt fear sweep over him in an icy wave as he recalled the glorious thrill of the other guy’s fear and pain as Ichigo had drove Zangetsu into his heart and twisted. He’d won, but what price had he paid? What had he turned himself into?

He didn’t feel much different.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“Yes and no,” Shinji said. “You made it, you won. You’re much more integrated than before, unlikely to suffer a complete takeover unless something really weird happens, but you still have a long way to go. And now you’ve got to learn how to use what you’ve gained. Tomorrow, though. You need more rest.” 

Ichigo shook his head. “I’m back on duty tomorrow. Show me the basics now, so I can practice on my own.”

“You’re exhausted, dumbass,” a short blond… girl? Woman? Female person said from beside Shinji. Hi… tori? That couldn’t be right.

“I’m fine,” Ichigo said, and stood, straightening his shihakusho. 

“He says he’s fine, Hiyori” Shinji said to Hiyori.

“He’s not fine, baldy! He’s an idiot,” she pronounced, crossing her arms over her chest. These two… Were they brother and sister? They looked like they could be.

“Hey!” Ichigo objected. “I’m seriously fine!”

He didn’t feel great, but he wasn’t what he’d call exhausted. He might be what someone else would call exhausted, he’d admit that, but he wasn’t someone else so it was fine. 

“Fine? I’ll show you ‘fine,’ asshat,” Hiyori said, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. “Come on.” 

Ichigo shrugged, followed her back out to the big faux-outside room. Shinji followed him, in turn. 

“Okay, so, you gotta do this,” Hiyori said, holding a hand to her face, swiping it down over it, and—holy shit!

Ichigo jumped back, alarmed, hand going to the hilt of his sword. A mask! A Hollow mask! What! _What?_

“See? Like so,” Hiyori said. Taking in his alarmed expression, she sighed peevishly and added, “Didn’t that baldy explain this to you?”

“I thought you were gonna!” Shinji protested, making this ridiculous ‘ugh!’ face.

Ichigo stared at the pair. Shinji clearly didn’t look alarmed by his colleague’s transformation. He sighed and turned to Ichigo, said, “Normal Arrancar have partial masks all the time, but we Visored have full masks only some of the time.”

Okay… “Is she… still the same?

“Hiyori’s always a little savage, so—urk!”

“Yes, I’m the goddamn same!” Hiyori exclaimed after kicking Shinji in the face. Ichigo increased the odds on them being siblings.

“You can’t manifest a mask if you’re so disjointed that your Hollow can take you over entirely. You might be a little… wilder, but you’ll still be you,” Shinji promised.

Well, that was good. A little wilder wouldn’t be a bad thing in a fight, so he could live with that. 

“You gotta kind of gather it up in your hand, and then envision putting it on. You know, like putting the visor down on a helmet when you’re ready to get to it like some old knight,” Shinji said. “The mask will choose it’s own shape, so don’t worry about that.”

“Gather _what_ up?”

“The Hollow-ness. Kind of like gathering reiatsu for some attack, but you’re drawing it exclusively from the dark thing inside you. Give it a try.”

Ichigo stared at his hand. He tried to remember the feeling he’d shied away from when he’d woken, how much he’d loved that his opponent was scared of him, the almost-sexual thrill of it, of power, of domination. He’d seen that fear in his opponent’s eyes and it had felt good, it had felt _right,_ because anybody with Ichigo’s blade pointed at htem fucking _should_ be afraid. 

When people commented on Ichigo’s strength, on his victories, he demurred, called them ‘flukes,’ called them ‘lucky shots,’ but when he did that he lied because deep down he knew, deep down he knew that he really was stronger, stronger than Kenpachi, stronger than Byakuya, maybe even stronger than Kyoraku, though they’d never fought. Deep down he knew that the world was his for the taking, _rightfully_ his, and the submission of his fellow Shinigami was only his due—

He lifted his hand to his face, and when he pulled it away he was looking out at the world through slits. He grinned, pleased with himself, and felt his cheeks press against the inside of the mask.

“Come on, then, show me what you got,” Hiyori called, and Ichigo’s smile turned sharper, wider, wilder as he carefully let just a little bit of the other guy out to play.

She bounded off and he was after her like a shot, and fuck yes, this was the stuff, the chase, the hunt, and Ichigo felt himself feel that thrill and recognized it for what it was, the influence of his Hollow nature. All this was really sudden but if Ichigo was good at anything, it was adapting to changed circumstances, so he did like he’d done with Grimmjow and the _juramento_ and just rolled with it, let himself enjoy it. 

He didn’t feel out of control, didn’t feel like he’d take this too far. It was the same thrill he’d always felt in a fight, just… more. Just not as guilt-ridden, too, which was a definite plus. Ooh, look, Hiyori was turning to face him, blade up in a guard stance, ready to take whatever he decided to give her. He didn’t really want to hurt her, though he also kind of did, so he only sent a little Getsugatensho her way, about a third of its normal strength. 

It dispersed around her, smashed to bits on the stone wall of her reiatsu and she was coming straight for him, shit, she was _fast!_ He wasn’t going to be able to block, so he tried to dodge and then he was spinning, tumbling out of control through the air and crashing head-first into a rock.

“Don’t you dare frikkin’ patronize me, new boy!” she spat, livid.

Ichigo panted through the pain, found that his mask had been smashed to bits or otherwise fallen away and that he was tired, more so than he expected. Wearing that mask must put a heavy drain on his energy reserves.

“Again!”

Ichigo gathered up the darkness inside him and spread it over his face, then took off after her again. This time, he wouldn’t underestimate her.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on El Juramento:  
> Grimmjow has a bad day, a bad temper, and a _really_ bad idea.


	14. Anger Excitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmjow deals badly with feeling powerless and rejected. Like, really badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter gets pretty intense, some stuff about Grimmjow that's only been hinted at really comes to the fore. Nothing too terrible actually happens (nor will it!), but Grimmjow has some seriously messed up thoughts about harming/coercing Ichigo. Like, I thought about taking off my 'Good Guy Grimmjow' tag after I wrote it. He's still a good guy, though, just a fucked up one. He deals, mostly, but Ichigo has badly upset his equilibrium.
> 
> I think this chapter is important in understanding this iteration of Grimmjow (and how he's not so different from the original Grimmjow as he might have first seemed) as well as the relationship between Grimmjow and Ichigo. However, if you skipped the Orihime dream sequence way back in chapter 2, I'd definitely recommend skipping this chapter and tuning back in next week. I'll have a note about what happened.

Fucking idiots. Why was everyone else in this goddamned armed forces a _fucking idiot_?  Grimmjow ground his teeth. He knew there were some smart people somewhere, but could they prevent these… these… _strutting fuckwits_ from shooting first and asking questions later? _No!_ They just let some hotshot lieutenant straight out of officer candidate school go and start a major fucking interstellar incident with the goddamn _Athrakis Empire_ of all people. Nobody, there was nobody less flexible and harder to work with in this whole goddamn galaxy than an Athrak. 

Grimmjow groaned, feeling like hitting his head against the wall or actually just murdering that idiotic kid officer who had started this mess. He hadn’t acted against regs, so Grimmjow couldn’t even legitimately have him punished, though you could be damn sure he was getting posted some place where he couldn’t do any more harm. Perhaps the jungle training base on the _Oceano del Sur?_ Sounded like a tropical vacation, but it was a shitty run-down base on an island that was half jungle, half swamp and all infested with blood-sucking insects the size of a man’s hand that left a bite that made about a quarter of your body itch like mad for weeks.

He stared at this latest communique, the one that had rekindled his towering irritation from its quiescent, ready-to-go-take-a-fucking-nap-because-he-hadn’t-got-a-chance-to-sleep-last-night state. Apparently, there were now _over a thousand_ Athrak warships massed in orbit of Valten, right on the edge of Arrancar protected space. Grimmjow knew those tentacled windbags well enough to know that they weren’t going to go to war over this, but they just had to threaten, had to bluster endlessly to try and get every single goddamn trade concession they could out of Hueco Mundo. So then Grimmjow had to dispatch ships to their own nearby world, Nova Vida, in case those assholes really did make a move, and now the whole thing had turned into a giant dick-measuring contest.

Well, the joke was on them, now wasn’t it, because Grimmjow didn’t lose those. He’d call their bluff if they weren’t careful, the Primera’s orders be damned, and their commander should know better than to _fucking test him_. There’d been some unrest in some of the larger cities lately, probably thanks to all this peacetime—lots of hot-blooded Arrancar boys and girls looking for something to kill, and some of those stupid fucking Athrak would do just fine. Grimmjow grinned as he pondered this glorious vision, unchained from this fucking miserable little desk in this fucking miserable little room, leading a team of the best Special Combat had to offer to unleash some _serious fucking mayhem_ on an unsuspecting Athrak-tal.

Those technocrat fuckers might have them outgunned on ship-to-ship, but there wasn’t an ounce of decent reiryoku in their entire civilization. If they made it onto the surface they’d light it up like those complacent fat fucks hadn’t seen in a thousand years. His palm itched, energy bristling under his skin, waiting to be unleashed in a Gran Rey Cero. 

Grimmjow stood abruptly, his chair spinning away from his desk as he started to pace. If he’d have known making it to Espada would leave him this fucking useless, stuck at home worrying like somebody’s bitch, he’d have… No, he wouldn’t, wouldn’t have done a goddamn thing differently because he had a goddamn chip on his shoulder and he had to prove that anything _that man_ could do, he could do better. He had to prove to himself and to his ghosts that nobody could look down on him, that nobody could dismiss him, that nobody could shove him aside while they hurt someone he cared about. 

Fuck, but he pissed himself off. Erinak Jaegerjaques had drunk himself to death years ago, and Grimmjow was _still_ trying to prove that he could handle his shit the way his father never had. He should have gone for Quinto, if he had to become an Espada, at least then he’d be out there doing something. But he couldn’t stand the idea of being his father’s successor—that asshole Gilga was a far better fit. 

Grimmjow knew himself well enough to know that this line of thought never got him anywhere good, but he was just too goddamn irritated with everyone and everything to stop. He’d get pissed off about his job, and that would remind him of his father because he was the reason Grimmjow had pursued the title of Sexta so relentlessly in the first place. Then he’d start thinking about that asshole, and it would piss him off more, and then he’d think about how he resembled his father because he was always so pissed off, and then he’d be even _more_ pissed—

A tentative knock at his door intruded on this meditation on the familiar vicious cycle. D’Roy’s familiar tenor called in, “Boss?”

Grimmjow breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, and managed a flat response instead of a furious snarl. “What.”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Get some sleep or something. We can handle it, seriously, and we’ll call you if anything happens,” D’Roy suggested.

“What? No. I need to be here,” Grimmjow answered. D’Roy—his sworn man and aide de camp (AKA secretary)—wasn’t the brightest bulb but surely he knew that Grimmjow wasn’t going to abandon his post at a time like this.

“Why? You aren’t getting anything done and neither is anyone else—the computers are messing up and half the building looks like they want to hide under their desks.”

The comment caused a spike in Grimmjow’s irritation level, but he deflated somewhat as he heard heard the subsequent distressed electronic hiss as his desktop display flickered in and out. It was supposed to be shielded so they didn’t have this kind of problem!

“Fine. I’m going to lunch. I’ll be back in an hour or two,” Grimmjow spat, throwing on his uniform jacket and straightening it with a few too-hard jerks.

He threw open the door—much to the surprise of D’Roy, who had still been standing pressed up against the other side of it—and strode out of the office, unaware that even the building’s lights flickered and dimmed around him as he made his way out of the building. 

He took a deep breath as he arrived outside, feeling the claustrophobic press of his threatening rage recede just a little. That fucking office would be the death of him, he swore… That or it would be the death of everyone else that worked there. He snorted in bitter self-deprecation—that would be one way to outdo dear old dad, a higher body count. What’s one woman weighed up against four hundred command staff? 

Grimmjow’s skin itched. He wanted a drink. He would not have a drink, because he didn’t drink, because that was the worst possible idea ever, but he wanted one anyway. Kestra, on the other hand, had never worsened anybody’s temper, but the thing was he didn’t _want_ to be mellow. He wanted to fucking _do_ something.

He was spoiling for a fight, really, that was what he wanted, what he needed. But there wasn’t anyone around for him to fight! He could limit himself and fuck around with some of his men, but this wasn’t a damn morale exercise. There were a few close to the top—including that spitfire Zikky, who’d challenged him twice and been slapped down both times, though by a significantly narrower margin the second time despite her severe injury the first—who could give him a challenge fighting all-out, but he’d lose so damn much face if he had to resort to beating up his immediate subordinates in order to deal with his temper. He’d look weak and unstable, setting himself up for an unrelenting series of challenges, which could cost him his position if he didn’t have adequate time to recover between them. Besides, they were his subordinates—until they challenged him, his job was to protect them, not kick their asses from here to Nova Vida. That kind of shit reminded Grimmjow too much of _him._

Okay, so Grimmjow had exactly two coping strategies that were heavy-duty enough to deal with this kind of day, and plan A was off the table. Plan B: he needed to find someone to fuck, to lose himself in, to make him forget everything but his desire to make them scream… _for one reason or another,_ some dark part of his mind added. 

He needed to feel someone breaking, _somehow,_ under his hands. It was the commonality between his two favorite forms of release, the thing that comforted him most of all—Mad Creator, he wanted to hurt someone, or at least subject them to so much pleasure that their body couldn’t handle it. He wanted tears, he wanted whimpers, he wanted submission. That tendency wasn’t something that he was proud of—too similar to his father—but had accepted it as just a thing he had to deal with, had to bleed off in controlled increments. That, he was a little proud of. His self-control, his perfect record, his ability to make his partners love what he did to them. Though most didn’t love it as much as Ichigo…

Grimmjow took off into the sky on a surge of reishi and anger to avoid blowing out the lights in the parking lot because that was yet another thing he had to be pissed about. Fucking Ichigo—stupid motherfucking Shinigami _arrogant prick bastard._ Grimmjow hadn’t heard from him since the day he’d left the Genryuusai and that had been almost two weeks ago. He’d tried to be nice, tried to give the guy some space. He’d even done him a favor by putting him in touch with Piano Teeth. And had Ichigo stopped by? Had he called? Had he so much as sent Grimmjow a message? No. What a _puto_!

He was just up there on his ship doing diplomacy and eating canapés while he entertained politicians, doing what the-hell-ever with Renji fucking Abarai and forgetting the way he’d quietly told Grimmjow he was the best he’d ever had. Forgetting the way Grimmjow had made him scream, made him come over and over, made his body fucking _sing_. Forgetting the way he had looked at Grimmjow like he was something other than a machine for killing, forgetting the way he’d touched Grimmjow’s face so goddamn carefully as the two of them made love…

It was infuriating. It was infuriating to be… he couldn’t call it ‘dumped’ because they were never a couple, but whatever you called it Ichigo had reneged on the promises he’d made that they would see each other again. It was even more infuriating that he, _Grimmjow fucking Jaegerjaques_ , was so broken up about it. He was hurt. Rejection fucking stung, especially when Ichigo had already crossed so many of his defenses. 

Mad Creator, it pissed him off that he let Ichigo get to him like this. He was not that guy. He was not the guy who got all butthurt when a weekend lover didn’t call him. He was, as a matter of fact, normally the weekend lover who didn’t call. But he’d thought…

It didn’t matter what he’d thought, because apparently he’d thought wrong. He’d thought Ichigo cared about him enough to ignore his people’s distaste for the Arrancar, but that had been stupid. Ichigo was a Shinigami, and the Shinigami all looked down on them. That was the only goddamn explanation—in the cold light of normal hormone function, Ichigo had decided he was too good to go around getting fucked senseless by one of Aizen’s monstrosities no matter how much he loved it.

Because he _had_ loved it. He’d loved when they’d done it slow and sweet and he’d loved when they’d done it fast and filthy. He’d loved it when Grimmjow shoved his dick down his throat as carelessly as he would with a cheap hooker and when he’d spanked his ass until it was practically glowing. 

He’d loved it when Grimmjow licked him out until he cried from frustrated need and he’d loved it when Grimmjow put him on his belly and worked that hot little sweet spot of his for all it was worth, making him come on just his dick so easily Grimmjow bet he could do it even without _el juramento._ Shit, he wanted it, wanted it just one more time, wanted to see that face he made right before he came and feel the way every part of Ichigo clutched at him like it didn’t want to let him go, wanted it so bad he was starting to get hard even as he hurtled through the sky. Despite his hurt and anger, the memories of his time with Ichigo still brought a feral grin to his face and got a rise out of his dick. 

They were practically the only thing that did the latter, much to his increasing dismay. He had no desire for anyone else—he only wanted Ichigo. He’d tried to fuck one of his ‘for a good time call’ girls, but he’d found her previously attractive form so non-arousing that he actually ended up _faking an orgasm_ to get out of actually trying to have one when he could barely stay hard. That one was a new low for him—he still couldn’t believe it. It was absolutely pathetic, what Ichigo had turned him into, and of all the things he ever thought he’d be, pathetic wasn’t one of them. Was it any wonder that he was angry?

Also two weeks was a long fucking time to go without getting laid, for him at least, and he’d admit that it was probably a part of his current spectacularly bad mood. He’d hardly even jerked off since he refused to think of that stuck-up little cunt Ichigo and nothing else really did it for him. Grimmjow knew Ichigo still wanted him, he _knew_ it. It hadn’t just been him, it couldn’t have been. They’d been fucking spectacular together, and there was _no way_ Ichigo didn’t want another piece of that.

But he’d apparently decided that Grimmjow wasn’t something he could have. He wouldn’t give himself permission to enjoy the way Grimmjow made him feel, evidently because he thought he was too good to be an Arrancar’s bitch.

Suddenly Grimmjow’s fierce scowl split into a wide, probably slightly demented-looking grin as inspiration struck. So Ichigo wouldn’t let himself have what he wanted, hmm? Well, Grimmjow could deal with that. 

He’d just take the decision right out of Ichigo’s hands. Oh, he’d fuss and fight and moan “nn-no-oh” oh-so-unconvincingly, but his body would tell the truth. Once Ichigo felt Grimmjow’s body on top of him, his cute dick would get so hard, dripping all over itself, wet like a girl the way he got, and then that greedy, slutty little hole of his would just open up and suck Grimmjow in whether or not Ichigo claimed to want it.

Fuck, yeah. He was hard just thinking about it. That would be just the fucking thing, find him, subdue him, and remind him of just what he turned into with Grimmjow’s dick inside him, of how much he needed what Grimmjow could give him. He wanted to run from that? Pretend he didn’t love it? Fine. Let’s see him try. Let’s see him try to pretend he hated it when he came screaming from nothing but getting thrown down and fucked the way Grimmjow knew he liked best—hard, and deep, and dirty.

A part of him knew this was a terrible idea. It was way over a line that he’d never had any intention of crossing. Not just a toe over, not a game taken a little too far, not just a fantasy made a little too real—Grimmjow knew what it was that he was contemplating. He did understand how consent worked, and he knew what it meant to disregard the clear lack of it. 

But Ichigo was lying to himself and lying to Grimmjow, and he wasn’t going to put up with that. Not at all. If it really seemed like Ichigo didn’t want him, he’d stop, but he highly doubted that was going to happen. He’d just have to hope retroactive consent was good enough, and please Ichigo so well that he got it. 

Stretching his _pesquisa_ out to its limits, he looked for Ichigo, the unmistakable bright/dark flare of him. And there he was, just like Grimmjow had hoped, out at Shinji’s compound, his reiatsu active and excited. It felt different than he remembered, Grimmjow realized as he got closer. Whatever Ichigo was doing with the Visored, it was working. Oh, yes it was—Grimmjow wanted to roll around in that thick, black, velvety reiatsu, wanted to feel it surround him. It was hungry and menacing and so goddamn gorgeous. He was suddenly struck by how much he wanted to fight with Ichigo not as his opponent but by his side, at his back. If Ichigo wasn’t too good for that, too, the _pendejo_.

Grimmjow landed outside the building and strolled up to the entrance, finding Lisa sitting at the desk in the reception area. A little chime sounded as he entered, and she looked up from her magazine, not bothering to close the raunchy thing but letting it lie open on the desk. A strawberry-blonde woman, wasp-waisted in a shiny, green PVC corset and panties, pouted up at them from its pages, and Grimmjow had a lovely mental image of Ichigo in the same get-up flash briefly into his mind.

Her—Lisa’s, not the magazine woman’s—eyes widened as she took in her high profile and somewhat disheveled guest. “Sexta Espada Jaegerjaques! It’s been a while, sir. What can I help you with today?”

“Yes, it has been a while,” he agreed, smiling at her, half-hoping (but not really caring) that it didn’t look as wolfish as he suspected as he considered why he was here. “I’m here to check on my referral, to see how Ichigo Kurosaki is doing. I know he’s here.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Lisa said as a surge of distinctly Ichigo-flavored energy roared up nearby. Seeming to have exhausted her interest in him, she said, “Go on back. He’s not hard to find.”

He gave her a slight nod and made his way back to the large training room at the compound’s heart. Hands in his pockets, he strolled casually up to the double doors that marked the entrance and then flung them open and walked in. He let up on his suppression, his reiatsu flaring wildly around him in undisguised challenge, letting them all know he was here.

“Yo! Everybody but Kurosaki, get the fuck outta here!” Grimmjow shouted, not wasting any time or energy on politeness. Just to make sure, he added, “This is an order from your Sexta!” 

Something was zooming towards him. It wasn’t Ichigo—it was too small.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here? We’re busy, so piss off!” Hiyori fumed, coming to a halt in front of him. “Go back to your office.”

Grimmjow sneered at her, annoyed by her jab and not in the mood for her bullshit. “Last time I checked, you were on my payroll, not the other way around, so don’t ya go givin’ me orders.”

Hiyori bristled at the brush off. 

“Why you—“ She began, but was cut off by Shinji, coming in the same door Grimmjow just had. “Yo, Jawbones, how’s it hangin’?”

Grimmjow gritted his teeth, ready to hit someone—he _really_ wasn’t in the mood for this. He was rarely in the mood for this crew—he had forgotten what a profoundly annoying bunch they were. “I just want to talk to Ichigo.”

“Fine, fine,” Shinji said placatingly, hands up in a gesture of surrender (though he also rolled his eyes). He knew Grimmjow well enough, apparently, to know when not to fuck with him, and just as apparently, he wasn’t too impressed by Grimmjow’s antics. Well, fuck him, anyway.

Just then, Ichigo approached, appearing from behind a boulder, moving slowly, favoring one foot. He looked plenty pissed off himself, and entirely delectable. “What the hell did you do to my foot, Hiyori? It _hurts_.”

He looked up, greeting Grimmjow with a distracted “hey” before sitting down and toeing off his shoe to examine his foot. 

“I didn’t do anything to it, idiot! You must’ve hurt it yourself,” Hiyori fired back.

Grimmjow couldn’t take his eyes off him, and the fact that Ichigo wasn’t looking back was irritating as all hell. It made Grimmjow feel crazy, like he was imagining things—was this really just all him?

“I said, everybody out,” Grimmjow growled. Ichigo looked up at him, surprise on his face at the threatening tone. “Not you. You stay.”

Their eyes met and locked, and relief washed over Grimmjow as he suddenly knew, for sure, that it wasn’t just him who felt it, the connection between them. It felt like a physical thing, heavy with the weight of all that had passed between them and the anticipation of what was still to come. Ichigo’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, the dark pulse of his reiatsu quivered with recognition and eagerness—Grimmjow wanted to kiss him, and Ichigo looked like he wanted that, too. 

But then Ichigo looked away and when he looked back his eyes were hard and flat as he stood back up, taking a couple steps forward to stand toe-to-toe with Grimmjow.

“What’s your _problem?_ ” Ichigo asked, snippy and dismissive, grating on his ears like it was precisely calibrated to rub Grimmjow the wrong way. “You don’t just get to come in here and start bossing everyone around.”

“Yeah, I do. Defense subsidizes the hell out of these guys, so I can do whatever I want here,” Grimmjow explained. “And my ‘ _problem’_ is you, Shinigami. Now sit the fuck back down because we’re gonna have a conversation.”

“What the fuck?” Ichigo spat, still standing. “I’m your problem? I’m not the one who… Ugh, why are you being such an asshole? And you don’t subsidize me, so you don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t get to give me orders.”

Grimmjow grinned at him ferally even as some saner voice in the back of his mind screamed _don’t go there!_ He reached out a hand, settling it possessively on Ichigo’s hip, and he let his voice go low and hot and teasing as he asked, “Oh, don’t I? But I thought you liked my orders, Ichigo.”

“That has nothing to do with this!” Ichigo snapped, slapping Grimmjow’s hand away, anger blazing in his eyes even as he glanced around furtively. There was no one else here, Shinji and Hiyori having wisely slipped out, but his unease only confirmed Grimmjow’s suspicion, fueled the hurt and anger burning inside him. Ichigo was ashamed of this, ashamed of them. 

“It has everything to do with this. You think you’re too good for me, Kurosaki? Too good to be my _pequeña puta?”_

“I’m too good to be anyone’s whore,” Ichigo announced with a sneer, his reiatsu starting to get riled, looming like a massive shadow around him. Grimmjow liked that. It excited him, in more ways than one.

“Anyone else’s, yes. Far, far, too good,” Grimmjow purred, reaching out to caress Ichigo’s face. He flinched away, but he did it about half a second after his eyes flicked closed and he pushed into the touch. “But if you think you’re too good for me, you’re mistaken. Don’t lie about how you feel, _dulzura._ ”

Grimmjow’s caress turned into an unyielding grip on Ichigo’s jaw, holding it open as he brought his mouth down hard and shoved his tongue inside, unapologetically and unequivocally penetrative. Oh, that mouth—how he had missed kissing that mouth, hot and tasting like Ichigo. Ichigo tried to flinch away, then melted against him with a buzzing huff of air against his lips that felt like a sub-audible moan, then stiffened again and shoved at him, trying to push him off. 

These mixed signals… They were turning him on something fierce. Grimmjow _really_ liked the fact that Ichigo wanted him bad enough to respond to his touch even though he didn’t want to right now. He liked that Ichigo couldn’t control his own body’s reactions, that he had unconsciously ceded that power to Grimmjow. 

So, he didn’t budge when Ichigo tried to push him away, encouraged by the earlier moment of sweet acquiescence. He just kept licking at Ichigo’s tongue, which pressed back against his and tried to pry it out of his mouth for a moment before Ichigo gathered his strength and shoved him back, hard. 

Grimmjow toppled back and almost overbalanced, but righted himself and managed to turn it into a skid rather than a fall. A kick of adrenaline from the sudden force of Ichigo’s push lit up his body, and he grinned a savage grin at Ichigo as he advanced again. 

Ichigo scowled at him—not the one that seemed to be his default expression, but something closer to a snarl, upper lip pulled back, obviously furious and possibly a bit hurt. “Do you not understand the word ‘no?’ That’s not okay, Grimmjow. It’s not okay _at all._ This is twice you’ve betrayed my trust! You’re such a fucking high-handed asshole! I thought… Well, I guess I thought wrong.”

Grimmjow was torn between guilt and satisfaction at the distress on Ichigo’s face. It stung more than he wanted to admit that Ichigo wasn’t willing to accept what was so obvious to Grimmjow, and his instinct when he was hurt was to hurt back. But this was Ichigo, who was… Someone to be protected from harm.

“Betray your trust?” Grimmjow echoed incredulously, shaking off his doubts. _Twice? What was the first time?_ He’d figure that out later, it wasn’t important right now. “You’re the one betraying yourself by not admitting what you are.”

“A whore?” Ichigo scoffed. “Not fucking likely.”

Grimmjow shook his head, reaching for him again. “Not a whore. _Mine_.”

“I’m not anybody’s,” Ichigo snarled, slapping Grimmjow’s hand away and stepping back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“You’re mine, Kurosaki, and if you don’t remember that you need reminding,” Grimmjow insisted, his own anger rising at the thought of Ichigo echoing Abarai’s words. _He ain’t anybody’s,_ Abarai had said, but that was before.

He was on Ichigo in a flash, _sonido_ -ing into his space, grabbing him up and carrying him back a dozen or so feet to slam his back against a nearby boulder, trapping him between a rock and Grimmjow’s body, both of them unyielding. He’d surprised Ichigo—apparently he hadn’t been expecting such an abrupt escalation—and he was slow to react, only beginning to struggle when Grimmjow had each of his wrists in one hand and was lifting them up to pin them above Ichigo’s heard. 

Grimmjow pressed harder against him, using his greater bulk to make sure his struggling was in vain, enjoying the feeling of Ichigo wriggling under under him so very much. Ichigo’s scent in his nose, Ichigo’s reiatsu all around him, Ichigo’s body bucking and writhing against his… It was getting him excited, real excited. Getting him hard. He thrust his hips against Ichigo, who faltered in his struggling for a moment, a short hard huff of air escaping his lips. 

Grinning, Grimmjow leaned in and licked a wet stripe up Ichigo’s neck, the sweat-salt taste of his skin only exciting him more. Ichigo’s struggle faltered again, and then he fell still entirely when Grimmjow skimmed his teeth down the tendon on the side of Ichigo’s neck and then nipped lightly, promise of a harder bite in the gesture. 

Ichigo was just as into this as he was—just as Grimmjow had predicted, he couldn’t control the way his body reacted to Grimmjow’s touch. He wanted it, and Grimmjow was gonna give it to him.

He pulled back to look Ichigo in the eye as he opened his mouth to say—

“Yagh!” Grimmjow yelped, stumbling back and releasing his hold on Ichigo’s wrists in favor of clutching at his forehead. Fucking _ow!_ That _pendejo_ just _headbutted_ him! 

Grimmjow glared at him, or tried to as he blinked owlishly to clear the sparkles from his vision, still clutching his head. What the fuck! Of all the cheeky fucking things… And things had been going so well, too. He should have bitten him harder, that would have turned Ichigo to putty in his hands. 

“I said,” Ichigo growled, his voice low and menacing, doing something to Grimmjow’s insides even as his head throbbed in time with his pulse, “Don’t. Fucking. Touch Me.” 

Shit. He had Ichigo good and riled now. He’d come here to fuck, but he was starting to feel a different kind of wild exultation roiling in his veins, spurred on by the pain in his head and his body’s insistence that it meant a fight was about to happen. He kept pushing, knowing he was nearing the point of no return. “Why not? Like it too much?”

Grimmjow raked his eyes over Ichigo’s body as blatantly, as lewdly as he knew how. Damn that baggy shihakusho, he could barely see anything of him but his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He wasn’t looking just to look, though—he was looking so Ichigo saw him looking, and Grimmjow made sure he saw the man he didn’t want to want giving him a a very thorough eye-fucking.

“ _Like it?_ ” Ichigo spat back incredulously, his voice rising in volume to match his flushed face, “On what planet does ‘don’t fucking touch me’ mean I like it?” 

Grimmjow walked toward him, casual, thumbs hooked into his pockets so his fingers framed his visibly excited crotch. “This one, if this is where you’re going to play such tricky games with me. C’mon, tell me you don’t want me. Tell me and mean it.”

Ichigo fumed at him silently for a moment and answered, “Fuck you, that’s not the point.”

Grimmjow laughed, infinitely amused as well as pleased to have this confirmation of what he already knew, and by doing so he found out that Ichigo liked being laughed at about as much as he himself did. The Shinigami boy drew his sword with a angry reiatsu spike and growl—an actual, honest-to-Aizen growl—and Grimmjow stopped laughing but only because he’d never heard that noise from Ichigo’s throat before and he really, _really_ liked it. 

Pissing Ichigo off was really fucking fun.

“Fuck _me?_ ” Grimmjow echoed, smirking, waggling his index finger in a gesture of negation. “Uh-uh. Pretty sure that’s gonna be you.”

“It’s not happening, Grimmjow. I might want you, but I’m not letting an arrogant fuck who comes in here and starts bossing and demanding and getting violent when I say no do a damn thing to me,” Ichigo stated flatly. “Get it through your fucking head. _No._ ”

“You think wavin’ a blade is gonna stop me, _dulzura?”_ Grimmjow shot back, ignoring the little corner of his brain saying _well, when you put it like that, he kinda has a point._ “I came here to teach you that no matter what ya think, ya already know yer mine. Yer body knows it, yer heart knows it, but yer brain… I ain’t leavin' until ya get it through yer head. I’m gonna fuck ya, and yer gonna love it.”

“I won’t let you. You pull this shit, you don’t deserve it,” Ichigosneered. “You don’t deserve _me._ ”

Didn’t _deserve him?_ Did Ichigo really think he was that much fucking _better than him?_ Was he really gonna look down on Grimmjow like that? It was the one thing he couldn’t let stand. Grimmjow didn’t let anybody look down on him.

 _Of course he looks down on you,_ a familiar, gravelly voice offered from the dark recesses of his mind where it lurked, always. _He’s right to. You think you’re worth something, kiddo? You think you don’t deserve his scorn? You’re wrong. He thinks he’s better than you because he is. What would a Shinigami want with animals like you and I?_

Grimmjow felt the blood drain from his face, ice-water rage taking its place, the anger he’d been struggling to control all day welling up to saturate his mind and overflow. He felt it happening, felt himself going under, started to struggle against the overwhelming torrent of his fury pouring out of the too-small box he kept it in, pressurized beyond tolerance because he’d failed to maintain its safety valves. 

He realized too late he’d been too wrapped up in his work and Ichigo to manage himself properly these past weeks, but by the time he figured out what had happened, it had gone too far to stop. He couldn’t believe he hadn't seen it earlier, he should have known the signs. Mad Creator, what had be been thinking? Had he really decided it was a good idea to rape Ichigo? No, this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen. Not now. Not to Ichigo. Oh, God, not to Ichigo. Please, not Ichigo. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move, his whole body frozen in place, shaking as his his thrashing, flailing consciousness tried to escape the rising tide of his rage, of his worst nightmare made real. _No. No! No, no, no, no, no—_

 _Someone, help! Help Ichigo survive._ He wanted to scream for Shinji to save Ichigo but he couldn’t make his voice work.

Wait… What? That… That wasn’t right. Save him? Help him? Grimmjow could have laughed at the idea that he’d want something like that. He didn’t want anyone to _help_ Ichigo, he wanted Ichigo screaming for mercy. He had put himself above Grimmjow, and for that he had to pay. He had to be taught a lesson. _Nobody_ disrespected him like that. Grimmjow would kill him for that… eventually. After he'd learned his lesson. 

From very far away, a thought struggled up warning him that he was about to prove Ichigo’s low assessment of him right, but he physically couldn’t stop himself. He could feel the last of his rational thought shutting down, piece by piece until nothing was left but the desire to lash out. To demonstrate his superiority, to demonstrate his strength, to demonstrate how powerless such a one as Ichigo was before such a one as him.

He couldn’t let this stand. Ichigo’s contempt hurt like nothing he’d felt in years, decades even, and he was just _standing_ there looking at Grimmjow like he had no fucking clue that he’d just shoved a knife in Grimmjow’s gut and twisted. Well, Grimmjow would just have to get him back for that, literally.

Ichigo was just standing there looking at him with those eyes of his, those eyes that had looked at him like they could see him, those eyes that had flayed Grimmjow with their passion. He was such a fucking idiot—nobody looks at someone that _doesn’t deserve them_ like that. 

It must have just been wishful thinking, a delusion, a mirage in a desert of loneliness, because now those eyes held nothing but contempt, the same contempt he’d thought he’d been free of forever that night when Yammy Llargo had gotten him out of bed two hours before dawn to identify his old man’s body. The same contempt he’d seen over and over and over as he’d been shoved aside, too young and too weak to be a satisfying target for the Quinto’s rage. Contempt—the certainty that Grimmjow was no threat.

Ichigo stepped back, eyeing him warily like he was some wild animal that might or might not attack. There was a flash of something across his face, some dismay or realization as he figured out that Grimmjow wasn’t fucking around anymore. This was no expert deduction—it was pretty damn hard to miss, with the way Grimmjow’s reiatsu expanded out from his body with the force of a physical shockwave as Pantera roared inside him, knocking Ichigo back. No, this wasn’t a game anymore—Ichigo had that right. If he’d just showed a little goddamn respect, things could have gone well for him. They’d have all had a good time.

But it was better this way. Now he knew what Ichigo really thought—that Grimmjow didn’t deserve his lily-white Shinigami ass.

He felt a grin split his face, different than the ones that had come before, crueler. Whether he deserved it or not was _so_ not the point. Deserve… He deserved whatever he was strong enough to take, and that was the end of it. If Ichigo thought he was the arbiter of what Grimmjow did and didn’t deserve, well… He’d knock the arrogant little bitch down a few pegs.

They’d see if Ichigo could still look down on Grimmjow with his tear-streaked face in the dust, could still say ‘no’ when his throat was raw from screaming. Ichigo thought he was Grimmjow’s superior? They’d see how superior he felt, broken open and bloody under him.

Ichigo took a few wary steps back, dropping into a defensive stance. That’s right, Ichigo—playtime’s over.

Or, wait. No, not over. Grimmjow’s cheeks hurt, he was smiling so wide, his mascarita digging into his skin. He hadn’t felt this good, this much like playing, in _years_. Especially now the list of things he could play with was so greatly expanded… Oh. Oh, yes—Grimmjow bit back a moan at the thought of sinking his claws into Ichigo’s belly and just ripping him apart. Oh, the things he was gonna do to him… Grimmjow shuddered, exultant, his mind awash with violence and gore and the promise of true release. _Playtime,_ he thought, _has just begun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't scared you off! This chapter is part 1 of three of this subsection of the story, and all of them will deal with the sex/violence dichotomy that drives this pairing, but this one is almost certainly the most messed up. 
> 
> Find out what happens...  
> Next time on El Juramento: Ichigo doesn't understand what just happened, but he knows he can't lose.


	15. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo and Grimmjow have it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! I'm sorry for disappearing for so long... It was kind of a shitty semester, plus I was just really dismayed at the ending of Bleach. Also, politics. I mean, what the fuck. So for a variety of reasons, I didn't have much creative juice until the end of winter break. (Also I was kind of dreading writing an extended fight scene.) But I promise you won't have to wait until summer for another update; I had fun writing this and will make sure to make time to wrap this up. I'm hoping I'll be able to update monthly--there'll be maybe 3 or 4 more chapters.
> 
> Thanks for coming back after so long, faithful readers. You guys are great : )

Ichigo had no idea what the fuck was happening. Grimmjow’s face… That expression. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him. His face was transformed by a mad, manic grin, perverting his handsome features into something genuinely frightening. He hadn’t once been truly scared of Grimmjow in this exchange—pissed, yes, offended, yes, disappointed, yes, but not _scared._ Grimmjow had offered him only the lowest level of violence, restraining him to his bodily strength and not bringing his (terrifyingly massive, he now knew) reiryoku to bear, signaling that he was, in some sense, at least, just fucking with Ichigo and wouldn’t really hurt him.

But now, something had changed, something had snapped, some tether inside Grimmjow had come loose and Ichigo had no idea what to do except to not let Grimmjow get his hands on him. Ichigo didn’t know what had brought this on but he knew what it was—madness, a killing rage, almost like Grimmjow had been taken over by his inner hollow despite having said that wasn’t how it worked for non-Visored Arrancar. Murderous intent rolled off him in waves, and it wasn’t like anything Ichigo had ever felt.

He’d thought he’d known what an opponent’s bloodlust felt like before, but Kenpachi’s reiatsu felt clean and pure compared to this. Even the ravenous hunger of a Hollow was better than this, this slick, sick, twisted feeling on his skin, the incoherent rage all mixed up with Grimmjow’s desire for him. Ichigo knew that if Grimmjow could get at him right now, he wouldn’t survive, and he wouldn’t die cleanly.

Grimmjow sprung at him, his hand outstretched, and the image of him mid-leap snapped into Ichigo’s mind too late for him to avoid being grabbed by his shihakusho’s collar and tossed, one-handed, into the air, the adrenaline spike of panic coming too late to do him any good. Fast, he was so fucking fast, above Ichigo now, an elbow slamming into his gut, knocking the wind out of him on a breathy cry and sending him hurtling back to the ground, but instead of the ground cracking and cratering under him, his back connected with Grimmjow’s foot as he landed a kick to the middle of Ichigo’s back that sent him flying up again, a blow that would have snapped the spine anyone weaker than a Vice-Captain, and as it was, made Ichigo’s eyes water in pain.

Grimmjow laughed, and it had about as much in common with the laughter Ichigo remembered from his room aboard the Genryuusai as a ray of starlight shared with a black hole.  It was impossibly cruel, no joy in it, no humor, nothing but scorn and mockery and straight-up contempt. “Maybe I’ll just kill you after all, Kurosaki. You’re a fucking disappointment and it’s killing the mood.”

Ichigo managed to twist away from the next blow, righting himself in midair and flinging himself away to put a little distance between them before bringing Zangetsu up in front of him, held straight out as he bowed his head and gathered his power as fast as he could. He couldn’t screw around here, couldn’t waste any time trying to win on his own terms. Like this, he was badly outclassed, and Grimmjow was barely employing anything beyond his bodily strength. The sheer physicality of him, the bulk of his body, the awareness that he was stronger and faster and more experienced made Ichigo’s heart pound in his chest like a frightened rabbit’s, the stakes of this fight adding a level of fear that he’d never faced before. 

He had ceased to be an equal to Grimmjow, ceased to be a person, even, and though he didn’t really know why, he could feel that he had become nothing but an object for his amusement and a target for his frustrations. There was something paralyzing about that, and it made him afraid in a way he’d never felt even when fighting the strongest Hollows. They were only one step above animals despite their technological acumen, and they weren’t human enough to understand deliberate cruelty or sadism. They just wanted to eat, but Grimmjow wanted to destroy for nothing but the sake of destruction, wanted to hurt him for nothing but the pleasure of inflicting pain—and the pleasure of inflicting it on him, in particular.

What _happened?_ What had brought this on?

Now wasn’t the time. He’d figure it out when he had Grimmjow safely disabled. Right now, it was time to fight. “Bankai!”

Energy surged through Ichigo’s body, coursing through him with such force that he couldn’t contain it and it swirled and eddied around him, thicker and blacker and heavier than it had been before he’d met Shinji, the consistency of it against his skin somewhere between velvet and tar, shot through with wild red sparks and crackles of power.

Grimmjow groaned—honest to god groaned, sounding close to ecstatic—as it washed over him, and between his body’s visceral response to that sound and the addictive rush of his Bankai, Ichigo forgot his fear for a moment, excitement rushing in to take its place. This was going to be a hell of a fight, but he could win it. He needed to take back some of the initiative here, and he let that hunger propel him forward, using reishi to increase the speed of his lunge so that he heard the wicked crack of a sonic boom just before Zangetsu connected with the still-sheathed Pantera, thrown up in a hasty block. Grimmjow’s eyes were huge and shocked as Ichigo’s momentum shoved him back, the two of them locked together by their blades as Grimmjow’s feet tore furrows into the dirt, slowing them just enough so that his back only cracked the reinforced concrete of the wall in a wide circle around him instead of crashing through it. 

Ichigo leapt back and gathered himself for another charge but before he could complete the motion Grimmjow flung himself at him, laughing maniacally as he toppled Ichigo to his back, and though his head cracked hard off the floor, the surge of panic from having Grimmjow on top of him focused him enough that he could kick out with both feet, the reishi-enhanced blow sending the Arrancar flying upwards. The ceiling must have been a lot weaker than the wall because even though Grimmjow was moving much slower this time, he went straight through, tearing through the blue-painted sheet metal with a grunt of surprise and pain.

As Ichigo got to his feet, his opponent came floating down through the opening he’d made, his slow descent with his arms held open wide a challenge and a show of reiryoku control that Ichigo didn’t think Grimmjow could have managed in the first few moments of their fight. Their eyes met and locked, and Ichigo saw that the madness had receded a little, swamped by exhilaration now that he’d realized this wasn’t going to be a one-sided beatdown after all. Grimmjow was bleeding from his left shoulder, where the sharp edges metal he’d sheared away had cut him, and maybe getting hurt had brought him to his senses a little, maybe fighting calmed him down somehow, or maybe he just couldn’t maintain that hysterical rage for more than a few moments. Either way, Ichigo was grateful. 

Grimmjow kept his eyes on Ichigo as he touched down lightly, smirking expectantly, almost the same way he had in the bedroom when he looked at Ichigo on his knees, and slowly, deliberately, drew his sword. 

“Come,” he demanded, and that was an imperative Ichigo could never resist, not when it came from him.

This time was no different. Ichigo lunged again and this time Grimmjow was ready for him, parrying the blow neatly, the clang and slide of steel-on-steel ringing in the air. It was, Ichigo thought distantly, a particularly beautiful sound.

  Grimmjow’s counterattack was so fast that it neared the upper limit of Ichigo’s speed to block it, but he did, bracing himself to absorb the strike and feeling the force of it shake his bones. And so began an exchange that Ichigo knew no observer had a hope of following, too fast even for him to follow with just his eyes. It took all of his senses, and even then, it was too fast to allow conscious thought to direct his movements. It was too fast to think, too fast to strategize, too fast to do anything but let experience and instinct guide his motions. He let himself fall into it, automatic and yet consuming his attention entirely.

He was getting faster as the exchange wore on, seizing the initiative little by little instead of just reacting and defending. The Visored he’d been training with were all incredibly skilled, but none of them used speed as a primary tactic the way Ichigo and Grimmjow did, and it was taking him a moment to get used to it. Hiyori was extremely agile and could twist out of the way of almost anything, but she wouldn’t have lasted against Ichigo if they were trading blows like this—she didn’t have the offensive speed to make Ichigo or Grimmjow have to work to block her attacks or the upper body strength to take blow after blow on her sword. Of course, that was why she used the kind of hit-and-run style that she did. Ichigo understood, now, what it meant to be the Sexta, one of only two positions in the Espada that was earned through fighting prowess. Grimmjow was a one-in-a-billion talent, same as Ichigo, and he had devoted much of his life to mastering fighting skills. Ichigo had fought all kinds and all styles, but never had he encountered someone whose bladework was so similar to his own—not particularly refined but relying on raw strength, speed and stamina. He could feel that Grimmjow was still holding back… but then again, so was he.

Watching your opponent’s hands and blade was a losing prospect even at a slower pace—like this, it would be suicide. He kept his eyes on Grimmjow’s face, just like Urahara had taught him way back when, and so he saw when the cocky smirk on Grimmjow’s face begin to falter into a frown of concentration and then, weirdly, curl up into a grin as Ichigo began to seriously press him, gaining ground by inches but gaining it nonetheless.

Abruptly, so abruptly that Ichigo stumbled foolishly when he failed to connect, Grimmjow disengaged, leaping back and into the air, and as Ichigo regained his footing, Grimmjow called out, “Ya passed! Now get ready if ya don’t wanna die!”

Ichigo looked up in time to watch him draw two fingers along the edge of his sword, his grin taking on a manic edge again as he brought his bleeding hand up, making a crimson arc through the air as blue light started to gather and condense in his hand, forming a ball that pulsed and strobed as it grew larger, crackling tendrils of power spilling out from it. 

He had a split second to decide whether to close the distance and try to interrupt Grimmjow as he charged the attack or wait here and prepare to dodge or block it, and he chose the latter, unwilling to risk taking even a half-charged version point-blank. That thing felt like it could blow a hole through his middle bigger than Grimmjow’s. 

So he gathered reishi around him and braced himself to take the blow head on—kido-type attacks like this were hard to dodge, and he’d probably be caught in the blast radius no matter what he did. But when Grimmjow cried, “Gran Rey Cero!” and unleashed the collected energy, Ichigo realized that his protections were nowhere near enough. _Shit,_ he thought, _shit!_ as something close to panic flooded his body, a jolt of adrenaline on top of his already overtaxed system. He’d be annihilated by this thing if it hit him like this, not just killed but fucking _vaporized._ So he pooled the darkness inside him in the palm of his hand, faster than he'd ever done it before, and brought the hand to his face, forming his Hollow mask as he felt his other self coming to the fore. 

He gathered power along the edge of his blade and brought it up just as the Cero reached him, bracing himself and leaning into it, and he screamed as the energy of Grimmjow's attack crashed over him like a breaking wave, splitting around Zangetsu as Ichigo poured more and more power into it to avoid being swamped by the incredible storm of light and fury that his opponent had called up. Every nerve in his body shrieked its alarm at the sheer quantity of reishi that he had to channel to meet the attack, and he didn’t know what hurt more, his own power coursing through him or Grimmjow’s crashing against him. 

With one final push he split the storm of energy completely and it parted into two halves, both of them plowing into the ground beside and behind him and exploding on contact with an impossibly loud roar and a wave of heat, throwing up dust and smoke, obscuring his vision until he flared his reiatsu mildly to encourage it to blow away. When Ichigo laid eyes on him again, Grimmjow looked pretty much floored by the fact that Ichigo had emerged completely unscathed, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging a little open.

Ordinarily, without the mask, he could have resisted the urge to taunt his opponent, but as things stood, he grinned up at Grimmjow and shouted, his voice taking on the harsh, warbling tone of his other self, “That all you got, great Espada?” 

Grimmjow’s eyes widened a little more and Ichigo realized that he had unconsciously repeated his own words from that first night aboard the Genryuusai.

“Oh, no, Kurosaki. No, it ain’t,” Grimmjow told him, shaking his head, smiling, delighted and wolfish in a way Ichigo had seen before, pleased that Ichigo could take this much of what he could dish out.

Ichigo gazed up at him, disappointed that Grimmjow couldn’t see his raised eyebrow but apparently his challenge and confidence, his refusal to be intimidated, came through clearly enough in his eyes because Grimmjow’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing and taking on a bit of their earlier mad gleam as their gazes locked for a long moment.

“Alright! You asked for it, Kurosaki!” Grimmjow called, and laughed, sudden and madly gleeful as he touched down, then tossed his sword into the air and caught it with his left hand, extending it horizontally in front of him and placing the tips of his (long, graceful) fingers atop the flat of the blade, closing his eyes in concentration.

 _Bankai?_ Ichigo wondered, then, _No, Arrancar don’t have Bankai. They have, what do you call it, Re-something._

Dust began to drift up from the ground around him, as the invisible winds of his reiatsu stirred the air, slowly at first in wisps at his feet and then in great long tongues licking the air around him, and finally obscuring him completely in a swirling dust storm. Above the sound of the wind, he heard Grimmjow call out, “Grind, Pantera!”

Then the blurry figure inside thrust out his arms and the dust blew away from him in a great wave, revealing what he had become. The transformation was startling, much more extreme than most Bankai transformations. He looked like a Hollow, now, white bone-plate body armor covering most of his skin except for a deep vee of that was exposed on his chest and touches of black around his neck and at his hands and feet, which had become clawed and catlike, and there were nasty-looking spines protruding sideways from his calves and forearms.  Pantera had disappeared, and Grimmjow brandished his claws like they were his new primary weapon

The _mascarita_ along his jaw had disappeared, and now he had one on his brow like a crown, framing his much longer hair and the striking pair of pointed ears he now sported, green like the markings under his eyes, which had become much more pronounced. He looked, Ichigo thought, impressive as hell and very much like himself with the volume turned all the way up—predatory and dangerous, a wild animal and a living weapon (even if his little black-socked cat feet were kind of cute.)

The Arrancar grinned, and Ichigo blinked at the sharp carnivore’s teeth that smile displayed, momentarily distracted as the sight triggered an involuntary recollection of standing in front of the mirror, the fingers of one hand on his neck and shoulder, tracing sucker-bite bruises and the still-red crescent shaped teeth marks left over from their time together. He cursed internally as he damn near bit his tongue off as he dodged out of the way when Grimmjow struck out with those claws just as Ichigo was midway through licking his lips. Now was really not the time for getting distracted, no matter how curious Ichigo was about his lover/opponent’s new form. 

That inauspicious beginning kicked off another high-speed exchange as Ichigo struggled to keep up with Grimmjow’s incredible speed. He was twice as fast at least, now, and he was attacking with with all four limbs while Ichigo couldn’t block with his arms or legs for fear of getting cut up on Grimmjow’s claws and spikes. More cut up, anyway—he was already bleeding from a couple deep cuts on his right thigh and the left shoulder where he hadn’t been able to get away fast enough along with a few lighter scratches and rips in his shihakusho from close calls. He’d lose, if they kept this up. He wasn’t much slower than Grimmjow, but he was slower, and this time he couldn’t seem to get the initiative at all, stuck on defense and getting slowly but surely worn down. 

He had to break off, put some distance between them between them and try to end this quickly before blood loss started to become a problem. He suspected that Grimmjow had calmed down enough not to kill him or otherwise do him harm once he had Ichigo down, but he wasn’t going to bet on it, and he didn’t want to press his luck by ending up temptingly woozy or passed out. It was easier said than done, though, to get out from under this relentless flurry of attacks. He couldn’t do much but give ground, letting Grimmjow press him back further and further as he dodged blow after blow. He had to disengage soon or he’d end up with his back to the wall and that would be nothing short of a disaster. 

Claws raked at his face and Ichigo cried out as they tore through his mask, three quarters of it crumbling away. This was seriously not a good situation. Grimmjow seemed even more skilled bare-handed than he had been with a sword—he was leaving Ichigo no openings whatsoever and he was right up in Ichigo’s space, just short of too close to really fight, clearly just as aware as Ichigo that he’d win if he could keep Ichigo from getting away. 

There was nothing else for it—he wasn’t going to get out of this without paying for it. He blocked one of Grimmjow’s kicks with his leg instead of his sword, biting back a scream of pain as his claws tore through his shihakusho into his vulnerable flesh. But Grimmjow hesitated, just for a split second, the rhythm of their exchange broken by Ichigo’s unexpected and illogical move, and Ichigo used that moment to slash at his right shoulder with enough force that he’d have to dodge it instead of block if he didn’t want to lose his arm. The momentum of his strike carried him to Grimmjow’s right as the Arrancar dodged left and he was out, free, shooting through the air to the other side of the warehouse as Grimmjow cursed, turning after him to pursue. 

But the time it took for him to turn was time enough for Ichigo to collect his reishi along the length of his blade as he raised it, waiting until the last possible moment. The quantity of energy was nowhere near his limits but he didn’t have time to charge it all the way when Grimmjow was coming straight at him with his claws outstretched, clearly having made the opposite choice Ichigo had made earlier, risking getting hit with Ichigo’s attack point-blank to stop it reaching full power. 

It was the wrong move, and Ichigo smiled in vicious satisfaction as he slashed Tensa Zangetsu through the air as he released the compressed blade of energy that had collected at its edge. He flung it straight at Grimmjow’s middle, trying to knock him back and maybe wind him, trying to buy himself a little more time, and okay, fine, yes, trying to make him hurt, to pay him back for the way he’d hurt Ichigo today.

Grimmjow’s grunt of shock and pain, audible even over the crash and crackle of the Getsugatenshou hitting its mark, was tremendously satisfying to the hurt and angry part of him and to that other self that was so tentatively integrated into his dominant personality. What ever else Grimmjow was to him, right now he was the enemy, and so Ichigo dismissed the faint stirrings of guilt he felt at his own enjoyment. 

He wasted no time in lifting his blade again, charging another Getsugatenshou, and this time he had long enough to make it a good one. Grimmjow hit the ground, skipped once and hit it again, then got to his feet easily after a moment. So he’d been winded and stunned, not really hurt, by that last attack. That was fine, and that was about to change. Ichigo meant this one to end the fight, and he’d call it a killing blow against most anyone else. Grimmjow, though, was strong enough to handle it.

Grimmjow made no move to interrupt him this time, instead adopting Ichigo’s tactic and bracing to meet the attack, his arms crossed in front of him. Ichigo had all the time in the world, then, and he was going to damn well use it. He let the power build beyond the usual point when he would have released it, channelling it through Tensa Zangetsu, his hands locked in a death grip around the hilt of the sword as if it was electricity pouring through him instead of reishi. It hurt, it hurt more and more every second, but Ichigo kept going, using up his reiryoku recklessly, gambling that this would be enough to take Grimmjow down.

He screamed and let fly, aiming for the exposed skin of Grimmjow’s chest. The reishi mass was so big and so dark that Ichigo couldn’t see what was going on as it hung in the air for a long moment, pressing Grimmjow back as he tried to block. But then it broke through, knocking Grimmjow off his feet and sending him flying across the warehouse and through the wall. Ichigo followed, hoping he’d won while simultaneously hoping that he hadn’t hurt Grimmjow too badly.

Outside the warehouse, Ichigo found Grimmjow lying on the ground, bleeding sluggishly from a massive half-cauterized wound that bisected his chest straight down the middle. 

“It’s over, Grimmjow,” Ichigo stated flatly as he stared down at Grimmjow, exhaustion hitting him all at once. His shoulders heaved as he tried to catch his breath and his wounds ached dully and continued to bleed.

“The hell it is!” Grimmjow hissed, struggling into a crouch, almost losing his balance as a sudden spasm of coughing took him. He recovered, barely, bracing one hand on the ground to keep himself upright and spitting blood. “I’d never lose to some condescendin’ fucker who looks down on me like like ya do.”

“Dammit, Grimmjow, I—” Ichigo began, but he didn’t get the chance to finish because Grimmjow sprung up at him, claws aimed for his belly. Ichigo twisted away so that they only scored his side, his exhaustion gone as adrenaline forced him back into fighting mode, strung tight and strung out as he was.

As Grimmjow followed through on his slash, trying to circle around his opponent, Ichigo delivered a sharp rap to the side of Grimmjow’s head with the butt of his sword, sending him crashing to the ground again. “It’s over. Grimmjow, please!”

Grimmjow struggled to his feet even as his body armor melted back into clothing and his claws disappeared and rasped out, “It’s not over until I make you take back what you said.”

“The fuck did I say?” Ichigo shouted, frustrated beyond belief that Grimmjow wouldn’t just stay down. The fight was over, and he didn’t want to hurt him any more. He didn’t want to get hurt any more. And he still didn’t understand what this was all about!

Grimmjow lunged at him, and Ichigo had a moment to be surprised that Grimmjow was still this fast, injured and exhausted as he was, before he was tumbled onto his back, Grimmjow’s weight pinning him to the ground.

“That I don’t deserve ya,” Grimmjow said quietly, and as Ichigo looked up at him he saw that the anger had drained away from Grimmjow’s face and in its place there was naked hurt so plain to see that it made Ichigo’s chest ache despite this whole mess, despite the way Grimmjow’s fist was still drawn back, ready to lash out. “Sorry I ain’t good enough.” 

Ichigo surged up and flipped them, pinning Grimmjow’s wrists with his hands after a short struggle. Apparently they were going to talk about this now, and he really didn’t want to get punched in the face if he said something wrong. 

“I said that because you were being a complete asshole, not because you ‘aren’t good enough,” Ichigo explained. “If you’d come in here like a reasonable person and asked me if I wanted to go back to your place or something, things would have been a whole lot different for you. No matter how much I like you, you can’t just demand that I drop everything to have sex with you, then try and threaten and bully me into it when I refuse.”

“Don’t fuckin’ give me that—what reason didja give me to think you’d say yes? Ya been avoidin’ me since I left even though I know how much ya loved everythin’ we did together. Ya want me, but ya won’t have me. Ain’t no reason ta act like that unless you think yer too good for me,” Grimmjow told him. “I’m an Arrancar and yer a Shinigami—I know what yer people think o’ mine. That we’re monsters, that we’re Hollows and killers.” 

Ichigo groaned internally—what a goddamn mess. Nothing Grimmjow could say would excuse any of his actions today or shift the blame, but Ichigo at least understood a little of what had brought this on, now. He almost wished he didn’t, because he could see just how badly he’d hurt Grimmjow by staying away.

“No, Grimmjow,” Ichigo sighed. “Well, some do. I don’t, though. I don’t think you’re a monster, though I’ll say you have some serious anger management issues. I stayed away because I just… I knew how busy you were, for one, what with this Athrak thing going on, and I… It scares me how much I want you. I thought it would go away when my _juramento_ was over, but it didn’t. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I know it’s more than just physical. I can’t do that again, Grimmjow. I can’t let myself get hurt like that again. I’m going to have to leave in a couple more weeks, and I don’t want to. I want to throw over my whole world for you, even now, even after all this, and I know that’s not entirely sane.”

“What’s so great about entirely sane?” Grimmjow quipped, but then he blanched, horrified.

‘What is it?” Ichigo asked, alarmed.

“I…” Grimmjow began, the oddest expression on his face. “Ichigo I… I tried to… I tried to force ya to have sex with me, and when you refused… I could have killed ya. I could have raped you, if ya hadn’t been as strong as you are. I wanted to… I wanted to… Oh, Mad Creator.”

“You didn’t, though,” Ichigo pointed out, not at all sure he ought to be trying to comfort Grimmjow over this. “And I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have after the first couple minutes of fighting. Anyway, I can take care of myself.”

Grimmjow closed his eyes, his head turned to the side. He asked, “You know how my mom died?” 

Puzzled, Ichigo said, “No.”

“My ol’ man killed her,” he said, eyes still closed. Ichigo could only stare, aghast. “Killed her in a rage, just like that one. He’d always beat her, ever since I could remember, and I could never do anythin’. He’d jus’ slap me aside, like I wasn’t even worth beatin’. He never had anythin’ but contempt for me as a kid cause I was a skinny little thing, weaker than other kids my age until I got to be about twelve. The way he’d look down his nose at me… But tha’s a different story. Anyway, once I got a little older, though, I started gettin’ strong enough ta force him to hit on me and not her until he’d calmed down enough to be satisfied. 

“But then I moved out. He was insistent that I join the mercenary corps, cause he was the Quinto. I joined the regular military instead, but that didn’t matter because either way I was away a lot. And my mom… She lied to me, told me it had got better. That he’d quit gettin’ drunk, that he’d mellowed out with age. And I believed her, I deluded myself into believin’ her, up until one night I got the call. His boys at the IMD covered it all up, of course, but I knew what happened. The old man… The guilt ate him up, and he died a couple years later from liver failure.

“It’s a family curse. All the Jaegerjaques men have tempers like that, as long as anybody can remember. I thought I had it under control—I ain’t done a thing like I done today since I was a kid. But I got to make an effort to keep myself in check, I got to work at it all the time. Sleep enough, eat right, do a lot o’ heavy sparrin’, get laid often, that kind o’ shit as well as some other stuff. I even fuckin’ meditate, if ya can believe that. But this Athrak thing and everythin’ with you… Sorry, I’m not tryna make excuses, I’m just tryna explain why yer right to think ya oughta stay away.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Ichigo told him, deciding that came first and foremost. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Grimmjow say so much at once, let alone about himself and his past. “And thank you for telling me all that, it helps me to understand what happened here today. But it doesn’t scare me, not really. In fact, it makes me think that if you’re ever going to be with someone, it’s got to be someone who won’t let you push them around and who’s strong enough to hold their own against you if it really comes down to that. And I think we’ve established both of those things.” 

Grimmjow finally opened his eyes, his expression losing that awful, defeated cast as he stared up at Ichigo, obviously quite nonplussed at his response. 

“I know what it feels like to think people should be afraid of you,” Ichigo told him softly, his voice still carrying the strange, warbling tone of a Hollow. He released one wrist to touch Grimmjow’s cheek, stroking it gently as he continued, “I know what it feels like to struggle with the darkness inside you. It’s not the same thing, but I think it’s similar enough for me to understand, at least a little. And I know how good it feels to find someone who isn’t scared. Please don’t mistake the fact that I’m not scared of you for looking down on you. It’s strange here, where everything exists in a hierarchy, but you and I are equals. I owe you respect, but I don’t owe you the respect of a subordinate to a superior. I do not follow your orders. I’m not your sworn man, Grimmjow. But if you ask something of me, I’ll do my best to give it.”

Grimmjow used his free hand to grab the back of Ichigo’s head and pull him down, kissing him hard, closed-mouthed and something close to desperate, clearly overwhelmed. Ichigo kissed him back just as fervently—it had been two weeks since they’d touched, and he was still keyed up from the fight and off-balance from their intense emotional exchange. 

Ichigo’s chest hurt from some mix of emotions that he couldn’t name, so intense that his throat felt tight. He was probably insane, to forgive Grimmjow what he’d done. But to know that he bore such deep emotional wounds, to know that he worked so hard to overcome the bad hand he’d been dealt and failed sometimes anyway, Ichigo couldn’t help but feel protective. Grimmjow had fucked up, big time. But there was no real damage done, and the thought of getting up and leaving and never seeing him again hurt even more than it had before.

He’d seen the rawest places of Grimmjow’s soul today, and in a way he felt honored to see what no one else did, to know that part of him. Ichigo felt the last of his Hollow mask crumble away just as he felt Grimmjow’s mouth open under his with a soft cry, his arms tightening around Ichigo, heedless of the pain of having Ichigo pressed tight to his wounded chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, the end of this chapter didn't turn out quite like I planned, but I'm glad of it. The original version of that and the following one would have been too OOC for Ichigo under these circumstances. /sigh. So this is didn't end up as "Anger Excitation Part Two of Three" after all, and that's kind of changed the whole trajectory for the rest of the story. I'm super bummed that I didn't get to use this ending for the chapter, though: 
> 
> Ichigo rose to his knees and grabbed Grimmjow by the shoulder, flipping him onto his front and pressing one hand between his shoulder blades, not caring that he was grinding Grimmjow's wound into the dirt.
> 
> "I'm not your subordinate, Grimmjow," Ichigo hissed in his ear, pressing himself against Grimmjow's back. "Let me explain this to you in a language you can understand."
> 
> ALAS I just can't see this Ichigo as the aggressor in a dub-con kind of situation, no matter how much effort I've made getting him in touch with his dark side.
> 
> At any rate...
> 
> Next time on El Juramento: Grimmjow know's what's coming. There's only one move for Ichigo to make in a situation like this.
> 
> PLUS: Something we've all been looking forward to for a long time, with 100% more feels than originally intended.


End file.
